


The Sun always waits for the Moon

by Vanimelda4



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Americana, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Teenlock, song inspired fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2020-05-16 15:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19320541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanimelda4/pseuds/Vanimelda4
Summary: "'The light of the moon is just sunlight reflecting off of its surface', he thinks.That's what John had told him."John and Sherlock grow up together, and consequently fall in love,  in rural Indiana, USA.Each chapter is inspired by a different song.Link to Spotify playlist can be found in the notes.





	1. The Sun always waits for the Moon.

Sherlock is looking out of his bedroom window. He is carefully peeking past a small crack between the curtains.  
He hasn't been in his bedroom, in this house, for a little over a year but, somehow, it all feels familiar.  
As if he's never left.  
As if he's ten years old again. And not eighteen.  
He's officially an adult now but he sure doesn't feel like one.  
He feels just as shy, lonely and insecure as he did when he was a child. 

Sherlock pulls the curtains open just a fraction wider.  
He is looking at the yard of the house across the street.  
More specifically: he is looking at John. 

He hasn't seen John in a little bit over a year either. The last time they actually spoke even longer ago.  
As he looks at John now he seems somehow changed and yet....still very much the same. 

He still has the same blond hair. At the moment it seems like spun gold as the Indiana summer sun beats down on his head relentlessly.  
It is a warm summer day but John is working outside in the yard.  
Pulling weeds. Trimming trees and the hedges that separate their lot from the neighbors land.  
John has removed his shirt in an attempt to escape the sweltering heat.  
His chest, like his face, is tanned.  
He must still like spending time outdoors.  
John is also very muscular, Sherlock notices.  
Now that is a clear distinction from when Sherlock last saw him.  
Even though John had been nineteen then his body had not been that of an adult yet.  
There still had been a softness....a roundness to him.....Sherlock doesn't know how to describe it exactly. Now he's all sharp edges and firm muscles.  
He must have spent the last year training and working out.  
Sherlock wonders if he's trying to impress a girl....  
John stretches his back after unearthing a very stubborn root and Sherlock swallows.  
They have history.....John and him.  
They used to be inseparable.  
As children anyway.  
But now.  
As he looks at John now he feels as if he both knows him and doesn't know him at all.  
A familiar stranger......if such a thing even makes sense. 

He desperately wants to go to John and just.....talk.....like they used to. But he knows he can't.  
As time has passed them by they both have changed.  
The way they see each other has changed.  
Well...for Sherlock anyway.  
They can't go back to the carefree way things were when they were both young and naive and he knows John doesn't want to follow where he has gone.  
And that's not John's fault. Not really. It's his own.  
He knows this.

Outside John has stopped his arduous work for a moment. He closes his eyes as he turns his face up towards the sky and the sun.  
There's a smile on his lips.  
The smile is familiar too.  
It's still the same carefree, light thing it always has been.  
It's very indicative of John's character. Even though he is outside, working, on a day that is way too hot to pretty much do anything, he seems to be able to see the positive side of things.  
It's always been that way between the both of them.  
John has always been the light to off-set Sherlock's dark.  
He considers himself at this very moment. Where he is. Hiding in the dark of his childhood bedroom, curtains almost entirely closed, a contemplative frown on his face and a black mood in his head, while John is outside, smiling, basking in the sun, his hair a golden halo. 

There's a knock on his bedroom door. 

Before Sherlock even has a chance to respond to it the door opens with a creak.  
It's Mycroft. Mycroft never waits for an admission. He just enters when he feels like it. He just does what he feels like doing most of the time. It's probably what has gotten him this far in life.  
Sherlock supposes it's just how Mycroft is able to survive. He doesn't really blame him. He just wishes he'd leave him alone right now.  
He's feeling too many emotions already. He's not prepared for Mycroft to start adding a whole slew of new ones. 

“Are you not going to say hi to John?”, Mycroft asks.

Sherlock closes the curtains, shrouding both of them in gloomy, oppressive darkness. 

“No”, all he says, avoiding eye-contact with his brother at all costs. 

Mycroft sighs.  
“I just don't understand”, he says, “you two used to be so close. Inseparable....for years.”

“Please....just....go away”, Sherlock replies. 

There must be something in the tone of his voice that gets through to his brother because, after a small pause, Mycroft just nods and closes the door again. 

Sherlock lets out a shaky breath and sits down on his bed. 

He doesn't feel like looking at John anymore.  
He shines too bright for the darkness of his mood at the moment. 

His bedroom is still exactly the same as when he left it. Mycroft has cleaned it. It's pretty much dust free. But that's pretty much all he's done in here.  
His belongings, his books, his clothes, everything.....it's all untouched.....exactly as it was when he left for Eton.  
It feels like a museum.  
Just as stuffy and stifling. 

Sherlock's eye is drawn to a photograph on the bedside table.  
It's a picture of him and John taken the year they'd met.  
As hard as he has been trying to forget about John for the last couple of years until he finally saw sense and left for England, he has never been able to get rid of this particular picture.  
They both just look so happy in it.  
Even Sherlock is smiling. He even has a bit of a tan.  
John was always good in coaxing him outside.....on all kinds of adventures.  
He always felt that, were he to throw this specific photograph away, he would also be throwing out these two smiling, happy boys. He'd be burying them.  
Murdering them.  
He doesn't want that.  
His memories of that first summer are amongst the happiest of his entire life.  
Oh....who is he kidding.....they _are_ the happiest of his entire life.  
When he first met John it was as if the storm-clouds that had been following him for such a long time suddenly broke open and the sun shone down on him for the first time in years. 

He takes the picture in his hand. 

With shaking fingers he first traces his own face and then John's.  
The soft curve of his lips. The dimple in his left cheek.  
His short, blond hair. Sticking out in impossible angles.  
John has his arm slung across Sherlock's shoulders. Their heads are close together.  
Blond and short next to black and curly.  
There are happy smiles on both of their faces.  
Even though it hurts he can't help but smile now too as the memories come back to him. 

*********************

Sherlock had been ten. John had been twelve.  
Sherlock and Mycroft had moved from London to Indiana two years prior, after their parents had died in a car accident.  
Sherlock doesn't remember much of his parents. They were hardly ever home as it was. The only thing he does remember is that his father used to smoke pipes and, as a boy, he had hated the smell and his mother had a habit of singing when she was busy in the kitchen.  
He has small snippets of memories, like faded Polaroids, of her favorite blue skirt, back then at eye level for small Sherlock, as it swayed from side to side as she moved her hips to the cadence of the song she was currently humming.  
Her voice was high and clear and she used to bake the best apple pies.  
Sherlock was never allowed to be in the kitchen when she was baking because the oven was hot and he was still small. But he remembers sitting right at the edge of the linoleum kitchen floor.  
Looking at her.  
And listening. 

When their parents died, Mycroft, fortunately, had been eighteen and so he had been old enough to step up as a legal guardian for Sherlock.  
Sherlock is pretty sure he would have died too if he had been placed in foster care.  
As much as he pretends to dislike his brother now, he is eternally grateful for the childhood he was able to provide for him.  
Mycroft has been very good at raising Sherlock. He's just been awful as an older brother.  
Sherlock is pretty sure Mycroft was born an adult.  
He doesn't remember ever playing games with Mycroft....joking with him.....being goofy.  
Mycroft is serious, pure business.....to the point....and....of course.....he had to be....after....

It couldn't have been easy for him either. 

By the age of eighteen Mycroft had already had several job opportunities lined up for him and so he had picked the one that seemed the most profitable. It just so happened to bring them from London to rural Indiana.  
Sherlock had screamed and cried when he found out they were immigrating.  
Had, through his tears, told Mycroft he hated him.  
Would always hate him.  
To this day part of him is convinced Mycroft has never forgotten this. 

At first Sherlock had hated everything about Indiana. The summers were too hot. The winters too cold.  
They only had a handful of neighbors and most of them were seniors.  
Fields and a road that barely saw any traffic the only thing surrounding the small cluster of houses they lived in the middle of and Sherlock was bored out of his mind most of the time. 

And then the old people who lived across the street from them moved.  
And a young couple moved in. The Watsons.  
And they had a son. Two years older than Sherlock.  
At first Sherlock had been resolved to just ignore them until the day they would, inevitably move away as well, just to be contrary.  
But Mycroft had made him go over there and say hi. 

And so he had gone. 

Frown on his face. The look he bore as dark as thunderclouds.  
And then John had come out. And he had smiled at him. Sherlock had scowled even harder. Still John had smiled.  
John had stretched out his hand.  
“Hi! I'm John”, he had said.  
Sherlock had found himself shaking the outstretched hand without even realizing he was doing it. Even then John's grip had been firm and confident. 

“I'm Sherlock”, he had replied. 

John had tilted his head to the side. 

“Sherlock?”, he had said as he bit his lip. As if he was tasting the word, the letters, like a fine wine, “that's a funny name......I like it!”

Sherlock had been taken aback. 

“You don't think it's stupid?”

“No....it's unusual......like you.....I like it.....and I like your accent too!”

Sherlock had found himself smiling. He couldn't remember the last time he had actually smiled. But, even then, the brightness of John had been strong enough to pierce through each and every single one of his gloomy moods. 

“You want to come and play in our backyard?”, John had asked, “I found a lizard there yesterday!”

Sherlock had nodded and had followed after John. The sun had shone on his hair then just as it does today. To Sherlock it had seemed as if a piece of the sun itself had found its way down to earth and had manifested itself in the form of one John Watson.  
John made him feel.....something.......John was different.  
Back then he had chalked it up to being friends....best friends....but now....he knows what it is now. Maybe he had known back then too. But he had been young. Just a child. What did he know about emotions like that. About complicated feelings. 

From that day on he and John were inseparable.  
They would climb trees, build huts, explore the fields, catch bugs....

John always had a very honest and direct way of looking at things.  
Whenever Sherlock would start to over-think John would always bring him right back to the here and now.  
John always had a solution for everything too. 

Sherlock remembers one summer evening where they had gone out at night to catch fireflies. Sherlock had been twelve then and John fourteen. Nothing had changed between them yet.....not yet anyway.  
They had been giggling and bumping into each other in the dark yard behind John's house under the watchful eye of Mrs. Watson.  
By the time their hunt ended they had been able to catch about a dozen bugs and as they sat, slightly out of breath, on John's back-porch the insects buzzed around in a glass jar sat between them. 

John had held the jar up between them proudly. 

“Look! They're glowing!”, John had said. His voice still that of a boy. High and full of excitement. 

“It's called bioluminescence”, Sherlock had said. Because that summer he had been into big words. He used to sleep with the encyclopedia on his nightstand. Learning at least ten new words every day.  
It was the kind of thing kids would bully you for. But not John. John had always been an exception to the norm.  
John had just smiled. The soft glow of the insects illuminating his face. 

“You're so smart”, he had said, “how do you spell that?”

Sherlock had spelled the word out for John and John had repeated after him. He had not mocked Sherlock. Had not made fun of him. He had just been honestly impressed.  
Sherlock always loved it when he was able to impress John.  
Wow and amaze him.  
Maybe, that too, was part of the reason why he slept with the encyclopedia next to his bed. 

“What do we do with them now?” Sherlock had asked then, looking at the insects currently trapped in the jar. 

John had furrowed his brow, smile slipping from his face for a moment as he thought things over. 

“Hmmmm”, his best friend had said, “I'm not sure......”

Sherlock wasn't sure either. He always left their wild schemes and plans up to John. Back then, John was the adventurous one. Sherlock just followed wherever he went.  
Like the tide that follows the push and pull of the moon.  
Only.....John wasn't a moon.  
John was more like the sun.  
Bright and warm. Bringing light and life wherever he went. 

John now held the jar up directly in front of his face and as the soft glow from the bugs inside illuminated his eyes, nose and mouth the parallel only became clearer. 

“You're like the sun”, Sherlock had said before he was able to stop himself. 

John had laughed then. Actually laughed. The sound had been bright and warm too. John never laughed at him. Always with him. 

“Yeah?”, he had said, “well....if I'm the sun....then you're the moon!”

Sherlock had laughed too then.  
It was hard not to be happy with John around.  
Back then anyway. 

In the end they had decided on releasing the bugs.  
They had stood side by side in John's backyard. Their shoulders touching. As John carefully unscrewed the lid from the jar.  
It had taken a couple of firm shakes for the bugs to actually fly off into the night-sky again. 

“They're like tiny stars......”, John's voice had been soft and full of awe. 

In that moment Sherlock had wanted to take his hand.  
He hadn't.  
Now, he wishes he had.  
Just to have done it.....just once. 

He had just nodded. Unable to find words.  
The moment had seemed far greater than just two small boys releasing bugs into the night.  
It had felt as great as the vast cosmos and actual stars. As the actual moon and sun.  
A warmth had spread through his chest then and for a moment he had thought he was having a heart-attack.  
Of course he wasn't.  
The feeling passed before he could spare it another thought. 

John had bumped him with his shoulder. His radiant smile shining.  
A rare sighting of the sun coming out at night to shine on the moon. 

“Wanna go and catch lizards tomorrow?” John had said. 

Sherlock had nodded.  
***********************

The next year John had been fifteen and Sherlock had been thirteen.  
John had been on the cusp of puberty but they were still children nonetheless.  
They spent their days much as they had before.  
Getting in all kinds of trouble. Coming home with muddy clothes, tears in their jeans, the occasional missing shoe.....  
Grinning from ear to ear.  
A warm happiness in their chests that sometimes lasted well into the night and made it hard for Sherlock to fall asleep.  
He would gaze at his ceiling as he lay in bed. Restlessly. Thinking about the stars....the sun....John......  
John was going to get his license after his next birthday. His parents had promised to get him a car if he did.  
He could drive Sherlock all over town then. Oh, the places they would go!  
Sherlock had felt excited but also a little bit frightened. As if he had already known what was about to follow. 

And maybe he had. 

Because. 

In the end it had been inevitable. 

*************************

John had been sixteen and Sherlock had been fourteen.  
They were still only two years apart in age but when one of you is sixteen it might as well be twenty years. 

John hit puberty and he hit it hard. 

He got his car. 

He also got a girlfriend. 

He got a whole string of girlfriends. 

None of them ever stayed around for long.  
But they always ended up in John's car. 

John offered to drive Sherlock around on more than one occasion but Sherlock always refused.  
Somehow he felt as if he didn't belong there anymore. 

They started seeing less and less of each other then.  
John's interests changed.  
He wanted to go to the movies, hang out with other boys from school who drove cars.  
Go and drink milkshakes with girls. Secretly drink beers. 

Sherlock could do none of those things. 

Would do none of those things. 

By then he had figured out that girls.....were definitely not his area. 

Maybe John's sudden interest in them felt like some sort of betrayal to him back then.  
But of course it hadn't been. That was just the way the world worked. Boys liked girls and those who didn't.....they were the strange outliers......not the other way around. 

During his childhood in London he had always felt like the “weirdo”, the strange kid, the one who didn't belong....  
John had changed that but now.....now he was different once again.  
Different from John.  
And he hated it.  
He tried to tell himself he hated John.  
But he couldn't quite make it convincing.  
Especially not when John smiled at him. 

He remembers one night where they were sitting outside on John's porch again.  
A rare occasion at that time in their lives.  
Sixteen year old John is telling him about the girl he is currently dating.  
Sherlock doesn't want to hear it but he listens anyway and pretends to be interested.  
Because John is still his friend. 

“We had sex”, John says. 

He definitely doesn't want to hear this.  
“How was it?”, he finds himself saying. 

John just shrugs. Not a very glowing review for someone's first time. 

“I don't know”, John ends up saying, “not what I was expecting.”

“Didn't you enjoy it?” 

John shrugs again.  
“I guess......”

Part of Sherlock is actually happy at the fact that John's first time with a girl seems to not have been the earth shattering experience he had hoped it would be. Another part of him feels terribly guilty about that. 

“I think I'm going to break up with her”, John says.

John's had five different girlfriends over the last six months.  
Every time he breaks up with one of them that part that makes Sherlock feel guilty warms up and springs to the foreground. 

“I'm sorry”, he says. He doesn't mean it. 

John just gives him a half smile. There is no light in it. No sun. 

“It's alright”, he says, “she just wasn't the one.”

They sit in silence for a wile longer. Just looking at the stars. There is a full moon out tonight. 

“Did you know”, John finally says, “that the sun never really leaves when it sets. The light of the moon is just the light of the sun reflecting off of it.”

Of course Sherlock knows this. He's had the encyclopedia by his bed for years. He's read it three times by now. Had John told him this a year ago he would have humored him. He would have acted surprised and awed.  
But not tonight.  
He can't seem to find it in him to fake something he doesn't feel tonight. 

“Of course I know that”, he says. Curt and to the point. 

John's face falls. 

“Oh”, he says. 

That's the last evening they spend in John's back yard. 

****************************

They see each other from time to time after that over the next couple of years but it's never like the way things used to be between them.  
Sherlock turns fifteen, then sixteen, puberty doesn't hit him the way it has John. 

John is eighteen by now. He has grown. He's taller. His face wider. More manly. He has a slight stubble and a square jaw.  
Sherlock finds it harder and harder to look at him as he is now. 

“Do you think you'll ever get a girlfriend?” John asks Sherlock. They are in Sherlock's front yard now. Every so often John comes to find him just to ask him stupid questions like this.  
Sherlock never goes over to John's house anymore. He might have a girlfriend over.....or start talking about one of them.  
He's had many more by now. They never stay for long.  
John has worked up quite the reputation at school. 

Sherlock shakes his head. He's pretty sure he will never ever get a girlfriend. 

John smiles. It is a false, tight thing. He smiles a lot of fake smiles lately. Sherlock hates it. It makes him feel cold. It is as if a cloud has drifted in front of his sun, blocking out the light and warmth, and it hasn't seemed to have moved in years now. 

“Shame”, John says, “we'd be able to go on a double date.....I could pick you up in my car....”

Sherlock shakes his head again. 

“I need to go inside”, he says, “Mycroft needs me.”

It's a lie and they both know it.  
They see even less of each other after that. 

***********************

By the time John is nineteen he's even more handsome than he has ever been before. More radiant....more....everything....  
Sherlock is seventeen and by now he's figured out for sure what these feelings he has towards John are and he is also pretty sure that because of them he can't possibly be around John any longer.  
Seeing what he wants and can't possibly ever have on a daily basis is slowly killing him from the inside out.  
He feels as if he's strayed too close to the sun and he's being burned alive. 

He knows he has to leave.  
Leaving will kill him too.  
It'll just be a much slower death. 

And so at seventeen Sherlock moves back to England. To Eton. To study and make something of himself and not think of John.  
He only partly succeeds in achieving his goals. 

At Eton he kisses a boy for the first time. 

His name is Victor and his lips are soft and his hair is dark and short. His hands are on Sherlock's hips as they sit on his bed.  
Sherlock closes his eyes but all he can see behind his closed eyelids is sun-bleached blond hair, a radiant smile and a soft dimple. 

He doesn't see Victor again. 

He is lonely at Eton.  
He tells himself he's not.  
He tells himself he chooses to not have friends. So he can study. Become top of his class. Make something of himself. 

********************************

And then summer break rolls around. Sherlock is eighteen and John is twenty and he finds himself back in his childhood bedroom and all the memories he has tried so hard to forget for the past year come flooding back in. 

John had looked good, out there, in the yard.  
Part of him doesn't want John to look good.....mature......handsome......  
Part of him does.  
He tells himself he doesn't know what he wants.  
But he does. He's known what he wants for years now.  
From the moment he had shook John's hand.  
But he had been a child back then. Just a boy. He hadn't recognized what it was he had been feeling and now that he does......it's too late.  
And John will never feel the same. John is straight. Very straight.  
He wonders what John's current girlfriend looks like.  
If he's driven her around in his car.  
If they've had sex.....

Sherlock has never had sex. He's only kissed that one time. 

He puts the picture back down on his nightstand facing downwards.  
But then he changes his mind and places it right side up again. No matter how much those memories of happier times, more innocent times, hurt, he never ever wants to forget them. 

************************

Sherlock doesn't go out that day. He stays holed up in his room with the curtains closed. He looks for John again but John has gone back inside.  
Just as well....probably....

He reads a book instead, lying on his bed, but he falls asleep halfway through.  
Jet-lag is a bitch. 

He wakes up in the evening when Mycroft calls him down for dinner.  
He doesn't eat much.  
He just moves his food from one side of his plate to the other.  
An oppressive silence hangs between the two brothers.  
Eventually it's Mycroft who breaks it. 

“John came by today”, Mycroft says. 

Immediately Sherlock looses what little appetite he has left.  
He doesn't reply and just stares down at his plate. 

“He wanted to know if you got home okay.”

Sherlock just sort of shrugs. Still not making eye-contact. 

“I said you had”, Mycroft continues, “maybe you can go over there tomorrow....say hello....for old times sake.”

Sherlock gives some sort of half shrug. He finds he is unable to speak. His throat has gone dry and he feels as if he's suffocating. 

Mycroft gives him a long scrutinizing look, sort of shakes his head and then just continues eating. 

**************************

As soon as dinner was over Sherlock had gone back upstairs. Claiming he was still tired from jet-lag and the long flight.  
Mycroft had let him go.  
In reality though he is as far from tired as he can possibly be.  
He is lying on his back in the middle of his bed staring up at the ceiling.  
He doesn't know what to do.  
He can't go and see John.  
He won't.  
It'll hurt too much.  
They are not who they used to be anymore.  
Neither of them.  
But he also cannot avoid John for the duration of his summer break.  
John lives right across the street. They are bound to bump into each other at some point. Maybe John will even try and come over again.  
And then John will tell him about his new girlfriend. Maybe this time he's finally found someone to go steady with for longer than a couple of weeks.  
Maybe this time he has found “the one”.  
Maybe John will marry one of these girls someday.  
If that happens the fine tears that have already been steadily forming across Sherlock's heart will rend all the way through. Tear him apart from the inside out and he will surely die.  
He knows his heart has been breaking for a long time. Because, why else would it hurt so bad.  
He lets out a sob as he clutches a clenched fist to his chest.  
In his dark bedroom the sound he makes is loud and cold.  
Like a wounded animal.  
And that is exactly how he feels.  
Like a caged, wounded animal.  
It is well past midnight by now but he feels he has to get out. Get some fresh air. 

And so he silently puts on his shoes and sneaks down the stairs and out of the house to sit down on his own front porch and stare up at the stars and the night sky. 

Even though the sun has gone down hours ago the air is still warm and it sticks to his skin. He wishes there was a breeze to cool him down. Some rain. Anything.  
But there is nothing.  
Just a hot and stale Indiana summer night.  
But he'd rather be out here than in his air-conditioned bedroom.  
Somehow the latter feels more stifling. 

He exhales and looks up at the sky.  
There is a full moon out tonight. Just as there had been years ago. The last time when he had sat outside with John. 

_The light of the moon is just sunlight reflecting off of its surface_ , he thinks. 

That's what John had told him. 

And if John was his sun and he was the moon.....wasn't that how things had been between them as well.  
Any radiance he had had was merely the result of John's brilliance reflecting off of him.  
And now with John out of his life.....  
All that's left of him is a barren wasteland.  
Cold and dark.  
He feels like crying again as, once more, his chest feels hollow and his heart a fragile thing. 

Why did he even come back?

Why did he come out here? 

What is he going to do tomorrow? 

What is he going to say to John?

“Hey, you.”  
He doesn't want it to but the sound of John's voice still warms him up from the inside out.  
Even now that he knows why that is and that he'll never have what he wants.  
Still he finds himself turning towards it like a sunflower towards the rising sun. 

John is wearing a t-shirt and shorts. He's wearing sneakers but no socks and his laces aren't tied. It's as if he was in a hurry.  
His well toned chest and abdomen can be seen as the fabric of the t-shirt stretches over them. His thighs and calves also muscular and tanned underneath his shorts. His hair is a mess. Just like it was earlier that day.  
Sherlock swallows and averts his eyes. He finds himself staring back at the moon. 

“Can I sit with you?” John asks. 

Sherlock nods.  
He cannot deny John anything. Being with John will hurt him but he is also weak. Now that he has John close-by again he finds he suddenly craves him. It's as if he has been lost in a desert for years and now that he has finally found water he cannot stop drinking. Even knowing full well that the pond is poisoned. 

John sits down next to him. Close but not too close. He can feel the warmth that's coming off of John's body but their legs and arms are not touching. 

“It's been a while”, John says. His voice is deep and masculine. Just like the rest of him. Sherlock feels himself heating up from the inside even more. It feels as if he's coming to life. Like a garden in spring. 

He just nods again. 

John laughs softly. The sound reminds him of a dozen fireflies on a warm summer evening.  
“How was England?”, John asks. 

This time Sherlock just shrugs. 

Neither of them speak for a moment. They just look up at the moon as they lean back on their hands and stare up at the sky. 

“I'm glad you're back”, John says, “I kind of missed you.....”

The cracks in Sherlock's heart and chest widen. A sudden pang sears through his chest. John cannot be saying these kinds of things if he doesn't mean them. 

“How are your girlfriends?” Sherlock asks. If John can hurt then....so can he.

John laughs softly again but there is no mirth in it. On some level the sound is eerily similar to the sob Sherlock left in his bedroom. Maybe they are both wounded.

“I've been single for a while now”, John says. 

“I'm sorry to hear that”, Sherlock says. He's really not. 

John turns his head and looks at him then. Sherlock keeps staring at the moon. He finds he cannot look at John directly right now. He fears that if he does it will be too much like staring at the sun and he will end up going blind. 

“You've changed”, John says. 

Sherlock tenses up. 

John laughs again. The sounds is slightly warmer this time.  
“In a good way”, John continues, “your hair is as bit longer, you're taller, you're more proportional than you used to be.....when we were young.”

Sherlock is curious now.  
“What's that supposed to mean?”

John laughs again. Sherlock wishes he'd stop doing that. It makes his skin tingle and makes it very hard to sit still.  
“I don't know”, John replies, “when we were kids you were all limbs.....long arms and legs....now everything about you is tall......the rest of you seems to have caught up.......it looks good on you.”

The air around them seems to have gotten even more warm and oppressive than it already was. Sherlock is having trouble breathing. He chances a sideways glance at John but it does nothing to calm his raging nerves. 

“I....”, he says but then stops talking. He has no idea what he wants to say. 

John is staring down at his feet now.  
“Whatever happened between us?” he asks. 

Sherlock feels like he's drowning. Drowning on air. Drowning in the desert. What happened? Everything happened. John happened. They happened. But, most importantly, they didn't happen. And Sherlock wishes they had. And he cannot seem to get over it. And it is slowly killing him from the inside out. Being this close to John is killing him. But he finds he cannot stay away. 

“We changed”, he finally says. Because, in a way, it's the truth. John became normal. What every boy should be. Strong, handsome and very much straight.  
And Sherlock.....Sherlock has become “queer” in every sense of the word. Strange, unusual, lonely and completely unlovable. 

“I never wanted things to change between us”, John says. 

“We can't stay children forever”, Sherlock replies. Perhaps his tone a bit more curt and icy than he had intended it to be. 

John swallows as he looks down at his shoes again.  
“I know”, he says, “but....I just thought.....I don't know.....I miss spending time with you......how close we used to be......I miss you.”

Sherlock swallows against a sudden lump in his throat. There are tears forming at the corners of his eyes. He blinks them away quickly. 

“Me too”, he says. His voice soft and barely audible in the darkness of the night but John seems to have heard them. He finds he cannot lie to John. Not then. Not now. 

Softly John's thigh brushes against his leg where they sit but the feeling is gone before he even realizes it. 

“Do you remember what I told you about the moon?” John asks him. 

For a moment Sherlock is confused. Why would John bring that up now? His confusion must be showing clearly on his face because John laughs again. There is so much warmth in it this time that for a moment the night is traded for brilliant day as the stars fade while John shines. 

“The sun never really disappears”, John says, “he just waits patiently for the moon to come out......because he likes looking at him.”

That's not how Sherlock remembers it.  
He is even more confused now.  
In his memory, without the sun, the moon is a lonely and barren wasteland. Not worth much of anything. 

He finds he is still staring up at the full moon hanging over them in the sky when suddenly John's hand is placed on top of his on the wood of the porch beneath them. 

Sherlock does look at John then.  
There is a strange look on his face.  
One he's never seen there before.  
It scares him a little. 

“Sherlock....”, John says only to fall silent again. 

Sherlock waits patiently for him to continue. Somehow it feels vitally important that John gets to say what he wants to say now. Sherlock feels that, if not now, he might never say it again. 

John clears his throat. 

“Sherlock”, he says again, “do you remember when we caught those fireflies?”

Sherlock nods. Of course he does. How can he forget the most perfect moment of his entire life. 

“You told me I was the sun......”, John laughs again. He sounds nervous, “and I told you that if I were that.....then.....you'd be the moon......”

Sherlock has no idea where John is going with this. All he knows is that John's hand is still on top of his and his fingers have gone clammy and sweaty and he finds he doesn't care.  
“Listen”, John continues, “I don't know why you've been avoiding me.....or why we grew apart those last couple of years before you left.....well....I have an idea why.....but.....you know.....we were both young......and very stupid.......and I think I was just searching.......for something.......that eventually, as it turns out, I had with me all along.  
Do you want to know why none of my relationships lasted?”

Sherlock nods. He's not sure if he actually wants to know but John is looking directly at him and his eyes shine like stars as the light of the moon is reflected in their depths and he finds he cannot refuse John anything even if he had wanted to. 

“I was confused”, John says. Sherlock finds he very much shares that sentiment at the moment, “about what I wanted.....about what I was feeling......for you......it was all so new and I thought you wouldn't........you were my best friend, you see...... _are_ my best friend.”

John squeezes their hands where they rest on top of the porch. Sherlock feels as if he's been lit on fire from the inside out.  
If John is saying what he thinks he's saying.....what he hopes he's saying......but he doesn't dare to hope.......not now.....this feels unreal.....like a dream......he finds he doesn't want to wake up. He wants to stay out here forever. With John close. Their hands on top of each other. Just them. Like they haven't been for years. And it's still not the same as it used to be. It's more....somehow.....or, at least, it feels like it has the potential to be more. 

John sighs, their legs are touching again. This time John doesn't move back. He gently squeezes Sherlock's hand again.  
“If I'm wrong about this.....about us, or if you don't want this”, he says, “just...please tell me......okay?”

Sherlock finds it hard to believe that there could be a world in which John could be wrong and so he just nods.  
A nervous smile flits over John's face. 

“Okay”, he says, “okay”, and then once more, “okay....”

And then the space between them gets smaller still as John leans against him. First their arms touch, then their shoulders, then John lifts the hand that is currently not resting on top of Sherlock's on the porch floor and gently cups Sherlock's cheek.  
The touch of his fingers light, almost reverent. Sherlock is reminded of fireflies again and he smiles as he closes his eyes. 

The next thing he feels is John's breath on his face as their foreheads make contact. 

“Okay”, John says again. 

For a moment nothing else happens. They both hold their breaths. John is waiting for him to say no, to push him away, to tell him he doesn't want this.  
But Sherlock does want. He's wanted this from the moment their hands first touched. He realizes that now as he places his free hand over John's fingers where they gently brush across the skin of his face. 

“Okay”, he finds himself saying too. 

And then John's lips are on his. Soft at first, tentative, warm. He thinks of fireflies again as his skin tingles and the warmth that had started in his chest from the moment John sat down next to him races through his body. Igniting him. Bringing him back to life once more. 

With his eyes still closed he feels the corners of John's mouth curl upwards as their kiss deepens. He moves his own hands away from their warm resting place underneath John's fingers and moves them to the back of John's neck, his shoulders, his lower back. He finds that, now that he finally can, he wants to touch everything.  
Make up for years lost.  
Relearn his best friend in a new and exciting way.  
As his hands dip into the hollow at John's back John gently bites his lip.  
The gesture is soft and playful and so fitting to John's character that Sherlock can't help but chuckle.  
He finds himself pouring over with light and happiness and he needs to let some of it out somehow or else he might explode. 

John breaks their kiss and leans back slightly. His hands are now on the back of Sherlock's shirt as well. Anchors that keep him from floating away into the night sky. 

“Okay?” John asks again. 

Sherlock chuckles again.  
He nods.  
“Yes”, he says and then, “yes”, again, and again, “yes, yes, yes.”

John laughs too and his eager lips find Sherlock's once again. There is a little bit more urgency to their kiss this time. They have years to make up for after all. 

Overhead the moon shines on. Reflecting the light of the sun. The sun never truly sets. It just lies in wait. Patiently. As it waits for the moon to appear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is inspired by "the Sun and the Moon" by Annalise Emerick.
> 
> Each chapter will be inspired by a different song.  
> If you want to listen along: the Spotify playlist can be found here:  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/vanimelda4/playlist/6X5R79gOruQ4egEQQ5cAQw?si=KziynRsNRMqb30cKa2jNkQ
> 
> As always: my eternal gratitude for reading.


	2. Twinkling Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm planning to add short chapters to the main story with little snippets about how John and Sherlock spend their first summer as boyfriends together. This is the first of those short chapters.

If you thought about it logically Sherlock should be feeling as if he had all the time in the world.  
He was only at the start of his summer break. By teenager logic the days should feel as if they stretched out before him endlessly. More hours of daylight than he could possibly find a use for.  
Ennui and lethargic boredom clinging to the edge of every new minute of every too warm and humid mid-summer day. 

Sherlock, however, had never felt more pressed for time.  
Every second that slipped away was a second closer to the moment he had to leave for Eton and leave this newfound....whatever it was that he had found.....with John behind.  
Every moment they spent together a harsh reminder that, in a couple of months, this would be the exact thing he would be missing and every moment spent apart now precious time lost. 

He sighs a heavy sigh as he looks sideways at John where he is seated next to him.  
It's late. Well past midnight. They are in John's backyard. Mr. Watson had let them light a fire in the Watson's fire pit and the dancing flames are currently casting a spectacle of flickering lights over the planes of John's face.  
Sherlock can't stop looking at him. He wants to commit this particular image to memory. He wants to remember every little detail so vividly that, whenever he closes his eyes when he is miles away again, he will see everything exactly as it is now.  
John's hair still slightly wet and slicked back from the afternoon swim they've had.  
The sunburn on the bridge of his nose. Still visible by the warm light of the fire.  
The curve of his nose. His jawline. The slight stubble on his chin. The soft curve of his lips.  
He looks so contented. At peace with the world. With everything. 

John is seated on a wooden fold-up chair next to Sherlock. The yard is big and there is plenty of room around the fire but their chairs are placed close together.  
If Sherlock were to move his leg a little more to the left he would be able to brush his knee against John's.  
John is wearing shorts again. The same pair he wore that night when he came out to find Sherlock underneath the light of the full moon.  
They had their first kiss then.  
They've had many kisses since but as far as Sherlock is concerned none of them will ever surpass that first tentative exploration of lips, hands and trembling fingers.  
The moon they find themselves under tonight isn't quite as full as it had been that night but it's still big as it shines down upon them from a nearly cloudless sky. 

Sherlock sighs again. 

“What are you thinking about?”  
There is an amused smile on John's lips. It's effect exacerbated by the deep shadows the flickering flames cast in the folds of his face.  
John has been asking him this exact question a lot ever since they started talking to each other again.  
Always with that same, fond, smile. 

Sherlock just shrugs.  
“I don't know”, he says. 

“Come on”, John bumps him with his knee, “out with it”, he says, still smiling. 

Sherlock is smiling too now. Smiling comes so easily when John is around. John. His sun. Casting his warm rays in Sherlock's direction and bringing him to life in the process.  
Sherlock fears he will feel cold every single day when he goes back to England. 

“I was just thinking about how nice it is to spend so much time together”, he says. 

John bumps him with his knee again. Slightly harder this time.  
“Yeah?”, he says, “it is quite nice, isn't it.”

John puts his hand on Sherlock's knee then and squeezes gently. In the fire a log gives a loud crack before splitting in two.  
They are supposed to be roasting marshmallows, or secretly drinking beer, or talking about girls.......or whatever it is that two heterosexual best friends do. 

Neither of them has come out to their family yet.  
They've hardly discussed what this thing that has formed between them is amongst the two of them, talking about it to John's parents or.....heaven forbid, Mycroft.....that just seems like a bridge neither of them is quite ready to cross yet.  
Because, how do you explain something to someone that you hardly understand yourself?

So, for now, when they are around other people, they pretend to be best friends again. They leave the kissing and touching for the moments where nobody can see them. For when they're truly alone. Keep all of this as private and intimate a thing as they both feel it is. 

“How long is your summer break again?”  
John's question pulls Sherlock away from his own thoughts.

“Three months”, he says as the smile that had, not moments ago, come to him so easily slides from his face. 

“And for how long will you be in England after that?”, John's follow-up question. 

“Seven months.”  
It's only seven months. But it feels longer. Feels more like seven years. Like a lifetime.  
He's gone longer without John before but back then....back then they didn't have what they have now.  
Now that he's learned what it's like to have John touch him for no apparent reason besides the fact that John just simply wants to touch him....likes touching him..............what it's like to have John look at him like _that_. As if he is everything that matters. As if _he_ matters. What it's like to feel John's lips on his, on the skin of his neck, just behind his ear.....now that he has found it he doesn't want to go even a second without it. 

Even at night, when he's in his bed, trying to fall asleep but finding he can't because every second that passes is a second he is without John. A second closer to the moment where he will have to say goodbye again.

And he will have to.  
Say goodbye.  
In three months.  
There is no escaping this fact. It is set in stone. It is a fact just as sure as the sun will rise in the morning after a long and lonely night of tossing and turning. But he still does not like being reminded of it.

John, sensing his gloomy mood, tries to cheer him up.  
“It's only England”, he says, “they've got internet there.... and telephones....we'll make it work....”

Sherlock gives him a weak smile.  
John is right.  
Of course he is.  
This isn't the end of the world.  
Far from it. They're both young. What's seven months on a human life?  
Barely nothing. 

A sudden breeze breathes new life into the fire and a small cloud of smoke and embers lifts of into the night-sky. 

“Woah”, John says as his gaze follow the tiny specs of light up into the dark until they fizzle out. 

They remind Sherlock of stars that have a brief moment of brightness only to burn out and die in all consuming darkness. 

It does nothing to improve his mood. 

John bumps him with his shoulder this time. 

“What are you thinking about?”, he asks again as he wiggles his eyebrows. 

Sherlock can't help but laugh now. 

He glances back at the Watson house quickly, but all the windows are dark. Mr. and Mrs. Watson must have gone to bed already. He presses a kiss against the corner of John's mouth and then nuzzles his cheek with his nose as he slowly exhales.  
John makes a contented humming sound. 

“I was thinking”, Sherlock says, “that seven months isn't all that long if you really think about it.”

John squeezes his knee again, turns his head and presses a soft kiss to the tip of Sherlock's nose. 

Seven months isn't all that long. That's what he says. But what he thinks is that the lifespan of a star can be about ten billion years whereas fireflies live for about two months.  
Ask the firefly or the star the same question and you will get vastly different answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, this story is not getting any views at all but, I'm sorry, I'm hooked on this idea. So expect more chapters. Terribly sorry.  
> It's because of Annalise Emerick's music. The chapter title is the title of another of her songs that served as inspiration for this AU. 
> 
> My eternal gratitude to anyone who actually is reading this. You have no idea how much that means to me.


	3. Hazy Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go for a swim in the lake on a hot summer's day.

It's the middle of the afternoon and the summer sun beats down on the world relentlessly.  
At this part of the day it has become far too hot to do much of anything at all and so Sherlock and John find themselves stretched out leisurely on their backs on the shore of the small lake near their houses.  
They've been swimming and roughhousing in the cooling water for hours during the morning and early hours of the afternoon. Their skin is still covered in quickly evaporating droplets of water and their chests rise and fall as they try to regain their breath as they squint their eyes to shield them from the bright rays of the relentless sun. 

When they arrived at the lake early in the morning they had found it quite deserted. The water seeking residents of their small town usually preferred going to the larger lake a couple of miles further down the road. During the summer season that one usually had kayaks for hire and an actual ice-cream stand which clearly made it the superior lake.

So, as they had found themselves quite alone in a secluded spot, nothing to separate their naked bodies but two pairs of short swimming trunks and the murky water, the scene could have taken a sexual direction rather quickly.  
But it hadn't.  
Instead, they had spent their morning chasing each other around the shore as they constantly lost their footing in the muddy sand, trying to push each other underwater, seeing who could make the biggest splash and holding small races to see who could reach the other shore the fastest.  
Pretty much like they used to do when they were still young boys. 

It had been nice.  
Very nice.  
To feel as carefree again as they once had been.  
The only thing you needed to worry about then was whether you would still be able to get home before dinner if you swam one more lap across the water. 

But now that the hottest hours of the day had arrived they found themselves quite drained and so they had decided to just lie down for a bit and let the warmth of the sun dry their bodies and let it do all the work for them.  
They find themselves very close to the waterline still and so the sand beneath their backs is still slightly damp and serves as a nice and cool bed to offset the unforgiving heat that beats down on them from above.

They've been silent for a while now as the summer heat settles in their bones. It is a comfortable silence. They've been shouting and giggling all morning. Their voices need a bit of a rest just as much as their bodies do. 

Languidly Sherlock turns his head to the side to look at John who is laying beside him.  
John's eyes are closed. There is a soft smile on his lips. John is almost always smiling these days.  
Sherlock looks at the drops of water that still cling to his sun-bronzed skin, his eyelashes, the hair on his arms. They shine like small diamonds as the rays of the sun reflect off of them.  
Sherlock feels his breath catch.  
John is beautiful.  
A work of art.  
He's always thought so.  
Even as a child he had thought John a sight to behold. A golden angel. The embodiment of Helios the Sun-god himself.  
But now that he is actually allowed to look at John....look at him like that.....see him like that.....he often finds himself lost for words at the beauty he sees.  
For a moment he muses that, maybe, today is such an extremely hot and sunny day because John has chosen to come outside and the celestial sun is doing its very best to greet its earthbound counterpart. 

Sherlock lets his eyes glide down John's body. Look his fill. Now that he still can.  
The fact that the days they have left together are evaporating as fast as the droplets of water on their skin is never far from his mind.  
A constant cloud, ever ready to rain on their happy outings. 

John's skin is tanned. Every inch of it that he is able to see is an even bronze color.  
John's chest is very muscular. He's got abs and pecs....it all just reminds Sherlock of a Greek god even more.  
There is a small scattering of blond hairs on John's arms and legs but his torso is pretty much hair-free except for a short trail of gold that leads from his navel to the waistband of his swim-trunks and underneath. 

As he looks Sherlock feels himself getting hotter still and he wiggles a bit as he tries to bury his back and shoulders into the cooling sand a bit more. 

John's chest rises and falls as he lets out a contented sigh.  
“So”, John says, breaking the tranquil silence that had fallen between them, “when did you first realize you were in love with me?”

For a moment Sherlock doesn't say anything. He wonders if John has seen him look his fill.  
But John's eyes are still closed and the expression on his face has not changed. And, besides, if John had seen him looking he would have commented on it directly. Being covert is just not John's way. He's always so honest and open. He probably just genuinely wants to know.  
A fond smile forms on Sherlock's face as he turns his attention back to the blue of the sky. The sun makes his eyes water slightly as he squints but doesn't close his eyes completely. 

“From the moment we met.....I guess”, he says. If John is going to be honest then he will be too. 

The smile on John's face widens but his eyes remain closed.  
“So I got all muscular and handsome to woo you for nothing”, he replies. 

Sherlock snorts.  
“You didn't do that for me.”

“Sure I did.”

“You're such a liar.”

John just gives a little hum that could pretty much mean anything before he says:  
“Can't prove I'm not telling the absolute and honest truth.”

And, no, he can't, but he knows that John also can't really prove that what he says is true either.  
Sherlock gives a small giggle.  
John usually does tell the truth and he feels a little bit warmer still as, for a moment, he lets himself actually believe that John had spent a year thinking about wooing Sherlock once he got back from England.  
He feels as if his life has become a fairytale at the moment.  
Things he thought that could never be possible are, at the moment, very real, and close by....if he were to stretch out his hand his fingers will touch everything he's ever dreamed of.  
Once again he turns his head to the side to look at John. John's eyes are still closed. His face still turned towards the endless sky above. Nearly all of the water has evaporated from his skin now. Making the planes of his chest and abdomen seem almost flawless save for the trail of fine hairs that leads down. 

“I do like it though”, Sherlock hazards. 

John's smile turns into a boyish grin.....just with a slight edge of “something” to it this time.  
“I know you do”, he says. 

They are silent for a couple of moments more. Just happy to be there. Together. Alone. No one they owe any explanation to save for themselves. 

This time it is Sherlock who speaks first.  
“John?” he says. At the mention of his name John doesn't open his eyes or turn his head, but his eyebrows do lift slightly as he waits for Sherlock to continue, “when did you know......”, Sherlock hazards, “about me......us......”

The smile with “something” extra to it is back on John's face now. The sight of it makes Sherlock's skin tingle. He wiggles his arms and legs in the sand underneath to try and calm the the sudden warmth that is starting to spread from his lower abdomen towards his chest but he doesn't find it to be quite as soothing anymore. 

“I guess I've always known too”, John says, “just took me a bit longer than you to figure out what exactly I was feeling........you always were the smart one.”

When Sherlock turns his head towards John this time he can just see a sliver of sea blue iris before the lids close again. The expression that settles on his friend's sun-tanned features something very close to serene.  
And that's how Sherlock feels too.  
What John has just told him is....quite something....it's not what he was expecting at all.  
All this time......  
They've both been......  
He finds the concept quite hard to grasp.  
He wants to ask more. About John's string of girlfriends and his experiences with them.  
But he decides to save those questions for a later date.  
He feels he might not like the answers once he gets them.  
This day has been so utterly perfect so far, he finds he is loath to ruin it by digging too deep into all the events that have led them to where they are now. 

So instead he decides to try and lighten the mood in an attempt to lift the weight of John's confession. 

“The smart one?”, he says, “you're not making fun of my encyclopedia's are you, John?”

The serene look on John's face once again makes way for a grin. He seems years younger again. Sherlock feels a weight lift from his chest. 

“Wouldn't dream of it”, John says, “but maybe you can teach me how to spell a word.....oh smart one.”

Sherlock let's out a giggle and with the sound the last of the remaining tension seems to leave his body too until nothing is left but languid leisure brought about by the warm embrace of the sun. 

“Don't make fun of my encyclopedia's”, he says, but by now it's clear that both of them are only being silly and the serious mood from before has completely passed. The skin at the corners of John's closed eyes folds into small creases as he smiles and, once again, Sherlock is struck by the sheer beauty of him. 

“Then give me something else to do”, John says, and he does open his eyes then as he finally turns his head to the side to look at Sherlock. There is a twinkle in their sea-blue depths very like the sparkling of sunlight on the waves of the water. His smile is slightly lopsided. The look on his face an unspoken challenge to Sherlock to see what he will do. 

The sun still shines down on them brightly, the water of the lake a gentle soothing rhythm in the background as a small breeze moves it along. There are birds singing. The sand underneath their backs is cool and soft.  
John is beautiful, his eyes a mesmerizing shade of cobalt and he looks so young and carefree and perfect.  
And there is only so much perfection Sherlock can take without acting on it.  
And so, in one swift move, he rolls himself over, on top of John.  
For a moment John's eyes go wide as Sherlock catches him by surprise but just as quickly the grin is back on his face and he wraps his arms securely around Sherlock's waist. Pressing their sun-warmed bodies together tightly.  
Sherlock allows himself one more look at the perfection laid out before him before he closes his eyes and presses their lips together.  
At first John giggles into the kiss as his fingers draw patterns on Sherlock's shoulder-blades. John's warm fingers igniting the flesh made cool by the damp sand he has been laying on not moments before.  
Sherlock knows it's not actually possible but in that moment he swears he can taste the sound of John's laugh as their lips move against each other.  
It tastes something like honey or sunlight or long summer days...or maybe....but before he is able to pinpoint exactly what the sound of John's happiness tastes like the lighthearted sound changes into a low moan as Sherlock's fingers find the trail of hair on John's lower abdomen and gently brush through it...lower....and lower......  
The grip of John's hands tightens where they find themselves against Sherlock's back. Sherlock moans too now. And for a moment he wonders if John can taste the sounds they make too....and what it tastes like to him....and then he's not thinking much of anything anymore as he loses himself in the moment. In John. In perfection. 

Above them the sun still moves through the sky inexorably. Burning away second after second after second of the days they have left until Sherlock is bound to leave John, and all of this, behind again.  
But not yet.  
For now there's just them.  
Just for a little while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song that inspired this chapter: "Hazy Days" by Ned Roberts. 
> 
> To be honest: I'm not really sure if I like this chapter or not. It kept changing as I was writing it. I'm not sure what happened. But...it is what it is.....
> 
> Once again: many thanks to anyone who reads along. If you want to: give the songs that have inspired these chapters a listen. They all are very lovely and set the mood for each chapter. 
> 
> If you want to: leave a comment. I love getting comments. They give me life and keep me motivated.


	4. Painting Houses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock helps John and his father paint the garage.

Today Sherlock and John are not taking it easy. They've had plenty of relaxed, laid back days this last month. Getting up late, lounging in the sun together, going for a swim, sitting in each others backyards or maybe not even doing anything at all.  
Just being.  
Together.  
Today however, they are hard at work.  
John had promised his father months ago he would help him re-paint their garage this summer.  
Apparently his father had decided that today was the perfect day for painting and that a promise is a promise.  
Initially Sherlock had not been very keen on joining them. He wasn't really looking forward to doing any sort of manual labor no matter how good the company but when he came to realize that refusing to come along would mean he would not get to spend any time at all with John today he had, reluctantly, agreed to help out after all. 

And so they found themselves, all three of them – John, Sherlock and Mr. Watson – each with a paintbrush in their hands and a bucket of creamy white paint at their feet on their own spot along the wooden panels of the outer garage wall. 

It had proven to be another warm day and, in order to keep cool, pretty early on John had taken his shirt off again.  
John had been shirtless a lot this last month. Sherlock was starting to see how he had been able to get such an even tan.  
He found that he was also very much enjoying the view but he had also, pretty quickly, decided that he would not be taking off his own shirt as well.  
No matter how hot the day would get.

At this point of the day sweat is starting to gather in his fringe and it's making his shirt stick to his back but, next to John, he feels rather self-conscious.  
Where John is tanned, muscular and broad shouldered, Sherlock is pale and skinny. Sure, he does have muscles but you'd have to look hard to find them. Not a single part of him is as well defined as John.  
When it is just the two of them this difference always seems to bother him less. John's gentle touches and soft kisses coaxing all doubt and self-consciousness out of him. But now that they have an audience, even if it is just John's father, and they have to keep a fair distance between them. Pretending they are nothing more than friends. Somehow Sherlock feels less sure. About what had happened between them. After John had initially kissed him. After what he still sees as the greatest night of his entire life. All of that seems so incredibly unlikely in the bright light of the sun with several feet of distance between them and John's attention not focused on him but on the task at hand. 

From his current painting location Sherlock sneaks a peek at John who is working just a little bit to his left.  
There are small drips of paint spattered all along John's arm. His muscles flex as he lifts the brush above his head in order to reach the higher wooden panels that make up the garage exterior and there is a sheen of sweat on his broad chest that glistens in the sun.  
Sherlock feels his throat go dry. 

Not for the first time since they got together he wonders what John actually sees in him.  
He's nothing like the curvy girls John used to date. He's all straight lines and awkward angles.  
His mind takes him back to the last memory he has of John with a girl. John's last girlfriend.  
They had been sitting in John's car, John and her. She had smiled and giggled at everything John had said. Her ample chest and wide hips accentuated by the tight and short summer dress wrapped around her body.  
John's arm had been draped loosely around her shoulders as he had looked at her and had whispered something in her ear. She had giggled again as she pressed herself against John's side.  
John had laughed too and it was then that Sherlock had decided he needed to get as far away as possible. He had booked his ticket to England not long after that day.

To his left John coughs the fakest cough Sherlock has ever heard in his life and when he looks over John is beaming a radiant smile at him as he gestures to his paintwork.  
Apparently John has been busy painting a heart.  
When he's sure that Sherlock has seen it he gives him a wink and quickly paints over it again. 

Sherlock's heart is suddenly beating twice as fast as a strange warmth spreads from his chest to the tips of his fingers.  
He feels slightly embarrassed now when he realizes he was actually starting to get jealous of a girl who probably hasn't been a part of John's life anymore for at least a year.  
He chances another look at John as he dunks his brush back in his bucket of paint.  
The painted heart is now completely covered again. Just an insignificant patch of white rapidly drying in the sun.  
There are small drops of white paint on John's chest too now.  
Sherlock wonders if the drying paint on his bare skin itches.  
He'll ask John later. When it's just the two of them again.  
God, how he wishes it was just the two of them.  
His shirt sticks to his back and chest uncomfortably as he feels himself getting sweatier by the minute.  
At the moment he's got less than one third of his designated painting area covered. When he looks over again he sees that John is already halfway. Even Mr. Watson to his right is close to reaching the halfway point.  
Sherlock sighs as he dunks his brush back in his bucket.  
He really regrets having said yes to this.  
He wishes it was evening and slightly cooler at least.  
He wishes he was alone with John.  
He wishes they could tell people about them....together....and it would not be a big deal.  
He wishes.....

Sherlock sighs again and carries on painting. 

***********************************

They paint for another hour before Mr. Watson finally calls for a break. 

“I'm going to go inside to get some water”, he says, “I'll get you boys something to drink too.”

Sherlock just nods while John shouts: “thanks dad!” and with that Mr. Watson turns around and heads around the corner of the garage and inside the house. 

Sherlock watches him go. He listens to Mr. Watson's footsteps retreating as he makes his way along the gravel that is spread in a thick layer across the path between the garage and the house and finally he hears the door to the house open and close.  
As soon as it closes there is a tap on his shoulder.  
Sherlock turns around to find John standing in front of him. John is standing very close. And he's still shirtless.  
Sherlock had not heard him approach at all and so he is slightly taken aback when he finds the tanned, smooth, slightly sweaty and paint splattered expanse of John's bare chest right in front of his face.

Reflexively he takes a step back.  
But there is only so far he can go. At his back is the freshly painted garage wall. The paint drying fast in the hot summer sun, but nowhere near to being completely dry at all.  
If he leans against it he will ruin both his hard work and the shirt he is wearing. 

He looks up at John's face. The left side of his mouth is curled upwards and as a result a dimple has formed in his cheek. There is a look in his eyes that can only mean trouble. Sherlock remembers it well from when they were kids. This is how John would look at him when he was about to propose a plan the adults should probably never ever hear about. But, just as there had been that day when they had gone to the lake together, there is something more to his expressions this time. Something else. A challenge hidden in the deep blue depths of his eyes.  
Having that look directed at him is doing things to Sherlock. It's setting his insides afire. Makes his heart race again and makes his chest feel too tight. There's a strange tingling sensation that moves from his lower abdomen to his chest. It is as if tiny sparks of lightning have made a highway out of his veins. As if flames are licking at his already too hot skin. As if....

Sherlock takes another small step back. John moves forward with him. Behind him only a couple of inches separate his still clean shirt from the wet, pristine paint and at his front there are only inches between himself and John's sturdy, and very naked, upper body.  
If he wants to get away his only option is to move to the right or left.  
He glances sideways briefly but before he can make a decision John lifts his arms and places them both on the wooden garage wall behind Sherlock. Effectively caging him in and where John's hands make contact with the wood his fingers and palms smudge out the fresh coat of paint. 

“So”, John says. His voice is soft and low and gravely and very close to Sherlock's ear, “what are you going to do now, pretty boy?”

The look on his face matches the tone of his voice and had Sherlock felt as if there were sparks of lightning coursing through his bloodstream before now he feels as if an entire thunderstorm is raging through his body.  
It's bright and loud, electrifying and intoxicating.  
Magnetic. 

And with the magnetic pull of the force of nature that is John Watson in front of him all he can think is: _Challenge accepted_ , as he steps forward, pressing his clothed chest against John's tanned flesh. 

For a moment the smile on John's face widens and he can see the electricity he feels inside his own body, inside his chest and lungs, reflected in John's eyes as they shine and bore into his.  
And then John licks his lips just before he leans his head forward and then those same lips are pressed against Sherlock's.

This time their kiss is urgent and demanding and full of a longing that has been ignored for too long.  
Suddenly, John's hands are no longer on the wood behind his head. Instead his paint smeared fingers find their way to his cheeks as they gently cup Sherlock's face and with them he guides him. Moving his face so he gets to kiss him just how he wants to kiss him.  
The warm fingers leave streaks of paint on his skin and in his hair.  
Sherlock places his own hands on John's chest where he first feels the rumble of John's moan before it makes its way through his throat and past his lips where Sherlock can taste it as he swallows it with his own. 

John dislodges their lips briefly then but he doesn't move away far. His hands are still on Sherlock's face. Their foreheads are still pressed together. Only a hairsbreadth between their spit slicked lips. 

“I've wanted to do that all day”, John says. The sound of his voice just a hoarse whisper between them. But before Sherlock can reply John's lips are back on his again.  
And Sherlock wonders how he ever could have doubted what John feels for him.  
His attraction to Sherlock.  
It is clear in the way he gently bites his lower lip and then sucks on it. Almost like an apology. How his fingers brush against the skin of his face. Leaving not just traces of paint behind but also igniting his flesh with the same electric warmth that had been coursing through his veins moments before. John seems to be made out of light and warmth and Sherlock finds he wants nothing more than to bask in it every second of every day. 

It is then that one of John's hands makes its way underneath his shirt. Leaving in its wake traces of paint and unseen fiery trails as his fingers brush over Sherlock's abdomen.  
The paint feels sticky and surprisingly warm on his skin.  
Sherlock's fingers curl into fists against John's chest. Just for a moment he wishes John was wearing a shirt too just so he'd have something to grab onto. To anchor himself. He feels as if he is floating. As if there is no ground beneath his feet. No world around him. Just John. Pulling him towards him like a magnet. Like a planet. Sherlock a moon orbiting around him. In the end he settles for pressing himself even firmer against John.  
John's warmth underneath his grasping hands and body. Familiar. Reassuring. Comforting. His kiss breathing life into Sherlock's very core. His fingers mapping out a path only known to the two of them. 

Behind them the door to the house opens and closes again. There are footsteps on the gravel and before Sherlock realizes what is happening John is moving away from him again.  
By the time Mr. Watson rounds the corner of the garage there is once again a respectable distance between them.  
And, even though the sun still shines just as bright as it has been doing the entire day, Sherlock suddenly feels cold. 

As Mr. Watson catches sight of them he stops in his tracks. He gives both of them a scrutinizing look before he just shakes his head and sighs. 

“Honestly”, he says, “and I was just telling Mrs. Watson how mature you've both gotten.....”  
Sherlock feels nervous and self-conscious as the paint is quickly drying on his face and, for the moment hidden again by his shirt, on his abdomen. As it dries the paint starts to flake and itch but he suppresses the urge to wipe at it with his hands.  
John, standing next to him, still has a wide grin on his face. 

Mr. Watson just shakes his head again.  
“Just go inside, John”, he says, “your mother needs you to drive her into town to run an errand and Sherlock......you'd better get cleaned up. I trust you still know where our bathroom is?”

“Yes, sir”, Sherlock says. When he was a young boy he would always call Mr. Watson “sir”. Old habits die hard it seems.  
As he makes his way into the house John actually winks at him again. Sherlock just ducks his head and makes his way to the Watson bathroom as fast as he can. 

**********************

Sherlock is sitting at the Watson's kitchen table. There is a glass of home-made lemonade, freshly made by John's mother, in front of him. There are ice-cubes floating around in it. The sound they make as they bump into the glass a soft and soothing tinkling.  
It's his second glass of lemonade already.  
They've been here for a while.  
Him and Mr. Watson.  
At the moment John's father is sitting on the chair opposite to him. Nursing his own glass of fresh lemonade.  
They've been talking.  
About Sherlock mostly.  
What he's been up to this last year.  
How he's doing at Eton.  
If he's made any new friends.  
How he likes the British weather.  
Chit-chat mostly.  
Sherlock doesn't mind. He likes spending time with Mr. Watson like this.  
Unhurried. Uncomplicated.  
At the moment they seem to have run out of things to say though.  
A silence settles between them as they both take turns sipping their drinks while the sound of birds and insects drifts inside through the opened kitchen windows. 

Sherlock is in the middle of taking another sip when Mr. Watson starts speaking again.  
“So”, he says, “Sherlock.....”, his tone of voice is different from what it has been through their conversation up until now. There's a slightly uncertain tone to it. The pitch just a little bit too high and a tremor on the pronunciation of Sherlock's name.  
Sherlock carefully puts down his glass on the kitchen table as, once again, he feels himself breaking out in a cold sweat. 

“Sherlock”, Mr. Watson says again, “John is never going to give me any grandchildren....is he?”

For just a moment Sherlock is confused. He doesn't understand why Mr. Watson is talking to him about grandchildren....and John....and then he does understand....and he feels himself go even colder still.  
He wants to answer but, with John not here, he has no idea how. He doesn't know how to put into words how things have changed between him and John. What he feels exactly when John is close to him and how earth-shatteringly different that feeling is when John is away. 

So instead he just looks down at the floating ice in his drink and shakes his head. 

Mr. Watson lets out a sigh.  
“I figured as much”, he says, “John has been acting differently ever since you came back this summer.  
I mean....the way he looks at you......I used to look at Mrs. Watson like that too.....when we were still young and had just started dating.”

Mr. Watson lets out a short laugh here. Sherlock still isn't sure how to respond. What to say. He can't quite get a grip on John's father's emotional state. Is he happy? Is he not happy? Is he disappointed......sad......angry......  
But before he has time to give it anymore thought Mr. Watson speaks again: 

“It's all fine, you know”, he says, “I mean.....I get where John's coming from. Look at you! You've become quite the young man.  
Tall, dark and handsome......  
But.....I do need some time to get used to all of this.  
You can't really blame an old guy, now can you...”

Mr. Watson gives another short laugh before he continues again. Apparently Sherlock's input is not needed. 

“You see”, Mr. Watson says, “all these years with you and John growing up together. I've come to see you as my second son and now that you and John are.......I just need to change the way I see things.....it'll take some time.......okay?”

Sherlock gives a small nod. He really wishes John was here. 

Mr. Watson sighs once again. He actually sounds a bit relieved now. 

“Good......good....”, he says, “but....maybe.....you boys shouldn't tell Mrs. Watson just yet. Her views are a bit more.....traditional than mine. She might have a hard time accepting.....this.....”

Sherlock gives a small nod again.  
He takes another sip of his lemonade just to give himself something to do but his throat is so dry that he has trouble swallowing it down and the previously sweet liquid now leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. 

“Good”, Mr. Watson says again, “very good.”

***********************************

John and his mother have finally come back from their trip into town. They are standing side by side in the doorway that leads into the kitchen.  
John is showing them a shirt with flamingo's on it that he's bought and his mother is looking up at her son. Her face beaming and full of pride.

Sherlock watches them and decides he will not tell John about the talk he's had with his father. 

John loves his parents. Unconditionally.  
It will break his heart to know that the love and pride his mother is showing him now will be lessened once she finds out who he truly is.  
Sherlock cannot do that to John.  
He cannot hurt him like that. Not now. Not while they have so little time together as it is.  
And so he decides to keep what he knows to himself. For the time being at least.  
He will have to tell John eventually. He does know that. And he will. Just.....later.

He looks down at his hands where they are wrapped around his still half-full glass of lemonade. All of the ice has melted by now. There are traces of paint beneath his finger nails. There are probably also still specks of paint left in his hair and on his abdomen.  
There's only so much cleaning up you can do at a bathroom sink.  
When he gets home this evening he will have to take a proper shower to get rid of it all.  
But not yet.  
He'll wait a bit longer to do that too.  
To remove the traces John's loving hands and fingers have left on his body.  
He will have to erase them eventually. He knows that. And he will. But not yet. Later......later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter inspired by the song: "Painting Houses" by Okay Mann.  
> I kind of like this theme of song inspired chapters I've got going. I might keep it up....
> 
> Again: thank you for reading. You are amazing and lovely and I hope you're having a wonderful day. 
> 
> ps: Comments are always appreciated.  
> pps: Do not worry. My stories always have happy endings. Real life is sad enough as it is.  
> ppps: If I keep this song theme up: would anyone care for a spotify playlist?  
> Edit: I went ahead and made a playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/vanimelda4/playlist/6X5R79gOruQ4egEQQ5cAQw?si=KziynRsNRMqb30cKa2jNkQ


	5. Brand New Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock can't sleep.

Sherlock can't sleep, though not for lack of trying.  
By now it's well past midnight and he's been in bed for hours. Tossing and turning. Both his mind and body equally restless.  
It's another too warm summer night and the sheets stick to his body. He's tried sleeping without anything covering him but having gotten rid of the sweat soaked fabric the stale air around him clings to his skin instead. Pressing him down into the mattress. Suffocating and oppressive. And so he had ended up picking the sheets back up from the floor and he had covered himself once more.  
It had felt lighter somehow. 

He still can't sleep.  
His mind won't turn off.  
He hasn't seen John in two days.  
John's mother has taken him with her on a trip to see some relatives that live a couple of hours North from the small town where they live.  
Sherlock had not been able to come with them.  
He doesn't know these relatives.  
It would have been weird if John had shown up with some random friend in tow.  
It would have been less weird if John had shown up with his boyfriend.  
Only....nobody knows that's what they are......boyfriends.  
Because they can't tell anyone yet.  
And so Sherlock had stayed behind and the days had been warm and the nights equally so.  
He could have gone swimming again but he finds that, without John, he just doesn't want to. 

Apparently John came home again today late in the evening but Sherlock had not been able to go over and see him.  
“Stop your moping.....You'll see him tomorrow”, Mycroft had said.  
Only....tomorrow seems like a lifetime away.  
There's a clock on his bedroom wall.  
In the dark he can't see it but he can hear it.  
Every second it ticks away feels like an hour.  
Sherlock estimates it must be close to 3am.  
If he wants to go and see John the earliest time he can get away with is 9am.  
That's another 21.600 seconds.  
And if every obstinate second will keep on taking an hour at least to pass it'll be roughly......he makes a quick calculation in his head..... two and a half years before he gets to see John again.  
Sherlock doesn't think he'll live that long. 

He closes his eyes and tries to sleep again. Sleeping will, somehow, make the passage of time go faster.  
But he still can't sleep.  
His room is too warm, his body too sweaty as the sheets stick to his flesh like a shroud and there's a tree outside of his window that keeps on tapping against the glass. 

Only.....Mycroft had that tree cut down about a month ago.  
Then....why are its branches tapping against his bedroom window? 

_tap_

_tap_

Silence for a couple of moments and then: 

_tap_

Somehow the sound seems too deliberate.......too rhythmic.... too planned. 

Sherlock's eyes shoot open but all he still is able to see is the darkness of the room.  
He throws his sheets to the floor one final time and, in nothing but his boxers, he makes his way to the window where he gingerly pulls the curtains to the side. 

It's dark outside as well. 

At first he sees nothing out of the ordinary. The outside is vast and he's not sure where to look but then another sound reaches him. 

“Psssssst!”

And then:  
“Hey! Sherlock!”

The words are coming from just underneath his window and as he looks down, as if on cue, the moon appears from behind the clouds and illuminates a golden blond head of hair. 

John.

John is here. 

At first he thinks he's dreaming, only.....he can't be.....he can't sleep after all. 

“What are you doing here?”, all Sherlock manages to say. The warm summer night seems to pull the words from his lips and swallows them with a mouth made out of moist, lingering heat and darkness but, somehow, John hears them anyway. 

“Throwing stones at your window until you wake up”, John says. 

“I wasn't sleeping.”

“Good.”

Even though the moon has drifted back behind the clouds Sherlock can still clearly see the grin on John's face. He feels his own skin breaking out in goosebumps but, somehow, he doesn't feel any cooler for it. 

“Come down here!” John says as he gestures with his arm. 

“What......why?”

“It's a surprise.”

It's barely an explanation at all but Sherlock would have settled for less.  
It's John.  
Here.  
In his yard.  
About two and a half years sooner than Sherlock had expected to see him.  
And so he just nods, closes the curtains again and quickly dresses in some shorts, a t-shirt and his favourite sneakers.  
As he is about to leave his room and tiptoe down the stairs so as not to wake Mycroft he takes one more look at his bed. He briefly contemplates putting his sheets back on the bed but, in the end, decides to leave them where they are. 

******************************************

“So.....where are we going?”, It's only slightly cooler outside than it had been inside. The difference brought about by a subtle breeze. Once again the moon has appeared from behind the clouds and, bathed in moonlight, John looks like something right out of a fairy tale. To Sherlock it seems as if the stars have descended from the sky in order to make a home out of the depths of John's eyes, the dimple in his cheek and the white of his teeth as his lips curl upwards into another boyish grin. 

“I told you”, John says, “it's a surprise.” There is a backpack slung over one of his shoulders.

“What's that for?” Sherlock asks as he points at it. 

“Wait and see.”

And then they're off.  
In the middle of the night.  
John in front and Sherlock behind.  
Across Sherlock's yard, down the road, through a field only to stop at the top of a small hill. 

John let's the bag drop from his shoulder and gives Sherlock another radiant, star-kissed smile. 

Apparently they've reached their destination. 

Sherlock is confused.  
He's not quite sure what they're doing here.  
He finds himself just standing there, nothing around them but night and stars and the moon and the occasional sound of insects going about their nightly business. 

John is in the process of unpacking his bag. 

There's a large blanket that he unfolds and lays down. He's got some bottles of water and a pack of oreo's.  
When he finally has everything unpacked he sits down on the far side of the blanket and gestures for Sherlock to do the same. 

Sherlock sits down next to him wordlessly. 

Even though the night is warm they sit close together. Their arms and legs touching. Sherlock feels his skin tingle once again. 

For a couple of moments they just sit there in silence. Breathing in the night air, looking at the stars, the moon as it drifts across the night sky imperceptibly.  
In the back of his mind Sherlock feels time starting to speed up again. 

He decides to break the silence. 

“What exactly are we doing here?”, he asks. 

“Oh”, John says as if Sherlock has just woken him from a daydream, “I thought it would be nice to see the sunrise together......or......you know.......romantic......or whatever.....”

It's too dark to see if John's blushing or not but as his sentence peters out he keeps his head down and avoids looking at Sherlock. 

“That's.....nice”, Sherlock says and he decides to slide his body just a little bit closer against John's. Somehow he can't seem to bring himself to look directly at John either and so he just looks at his hands instead. 

Another moment of silence follows.  
And then John chuckles. The sound of it so light that it temporarily brightens the night around them. Like fireflies.  
And then John's arm is around his shoulder and his lips are directly beside Sherlock's ear and his voice seems to be coming from inside Sherlock's head. 

“I missed you”, John says. 

“I missed you too.”

And then John's lips find their way to Sherlock's temple. Their touch soft like the breeze that every so often makes the hairs on Sherlock's arms stand on end.  
Sherlock tilts his head slightly.  
John chuckles again and once again the night around them seems to be on fire.  
Then John's lips are on his cheek, his nose.......Sherlock tilts his head some more.......he feels as if he is on fire himself now.  
John the sun he is burning up in.  
And then John's lips are on his and then time seems to stop completely. 

*********************************************

Sherlock and John are laying on their backs on the blanket. Side by side. Watching the stars.  
By now, between them, they've finished one bottle of water and the entire pack of oreo's. 

Neither of them have spoken in a while now. It's probably close to 5 am and the sun should start rising soon. 

“So....”, John says, suddenly breaking the tranquil silence that had slowly enveloped them, “I've been thinking....”

Curious, Sherlock turns his head towards John. There's an uneasy feeling that has settled in his stomach. John never just exclaims that he has been thinking. He just thinks....for a little while...and then flat out says what he's been thinking about. There's never a prelude to his thoughts. 

John clears his throat. 

“I was thinking”, he says again, “that I might join the army.”

“No”, Sherlock says. Not because he would deny John what he wants but just because he cannot believe what he is hearing. 

John's face turns itself into a contemplative frown. 

“No”, Sherlock says again, trying to negate his previous “no” only to realize John might not interpret it that way. He shakes his head where it lies on the soft blanket. “What I mean is....”, he continues, “why?”

“Why not?”, John says, “I've been stuck in this small town for years now. My life isn't going anywhere. I want to see something of the world. I want my life to have meaning. I want to matter.....make a difference.......do you understand?”

Sherlock doesn't understand. 

How can John not know he already matters?  
Has already made a difference?  
To Sherlock at least.  
He has completely turned Sherlock's life upside down. Has made him see and experience things he never thought were possible. Gave him a new outlook on life. 

Only....he does understand.  
He just wishes he doesn't. 

He shakes his head again. 

John gives another chuckle but there's no light in it this time. The sound as dark as the sky around them. 

“What I mean is”, John says, “look at you....off to Eton....seeing a whole new side of the word....learning all this stuff.....becoming the next Einstein.....and I'm just here....where I've always been.....it's just........”

“Einstein never went to Eton”, Sherlock says. Just to be contrary. He desperately feels like being contrary right now. 

John chuckles again. There's a faint flicker of light to it this time.  
“Did you read that in your encyclopedia?” he asks. 

“Don't make fun of my encyclopedia, John.”

“I do what I want.”

“Evidently.”

Another moment of silence passes before John speaks again. 

“Would it really bother you that much? Me...going into the army?”

“You might die.”

“We all die at some point, Sherlock. I might die tomorrow.....I might die right now.....”

Suddenly the stars overhead have lost their appeal. No longer are they gentle lights blinking at them harmlessly but giant, flaming balls of gas. Or bombs. Ready to drop down and kill either one of them in an instant.  
The sky too vast and open. Offering no protection at all.  
No where to hide from the inevitable death that will separate him from John someday. 

“You think too much”, John says as he carefully stretches out his hand and places it on top of Sherlock's. 

Sherlock sighs. 

If John wants to join the army then....that's what he should do. Deep down he knows this. He cannot let his own fear of losing John stop him from following his dreams. It wouldn't be fair. John is letting him go back to Eton. Without any complaints.  
Sometimes Sherlock wishes John would complain.  
Give him an excuse to stay.  
Only.  
If he did stay.  
He would be miserable too.  
He likes learning.  
Likes the possibilities Eton gives him.  
He can't find that in Indiana.  
So....yes....he understands John.  
Even though he wishes he didn't. 

“Just.....please don't die”, he says.

“You know I can't promise you that”, John says, “but I'll do my best.”

“Deal”, Sherlock says. 

“Deal”, John replies. 

John's hand is still on his and ever so gently his warm fingers squeeze Sherlock's cold ones underneath.  
The sky above is still far too vast and menacing but for the moment the gentle pressure of John's skin seems to be keeping Sherlock anchored to the ground at least.  
The stars still twinkle on. None of them turn into bombs. Nothing explodes.  
Next to him John takes a long breath.  
And then another.  
Sherlock closes his eyes and exhales too. 

**************************************

The sun is rising. The sky is a beautiful painting of reds and oranges and pinks and blues and there are birds striking up their first song of the day all around.  
Sherlock is sitting up.  
John, next to him, is still lying down on his back.  
He is fast asleep. 

Sherlock has thought about waking him but in the end he has decided to just let him sleep.  
John looks so peaceful now.  
They'll watch another sunrise together.  
Someday. 

If he turns his head to the right he can still see the moon. A faint outline against the ever brighter morning sky.  
Sherlock finds solace in the fact that, although they might be heading in different directions, for the time being, the sun and the moon still occupy the same sky. 

He decides to lie down too.  
His arm and leg once again pressed against John.  
He decides to turn himself on his side so he can look at the profile John's face makes in the early morning light.  
John's chest rises and falls slowly as he breathes.  
Sherlock places his palm in the middle of it.  
Underneath his fingers he can now feel the steady beating of John's heart.  
It's rhythm calming.....certain......reassuring.  
Each beat telling him that John still lives. Still has hopes and dreams. Is still here beside him.  
Blood coursing through his veins and air through his lungs.  
Sherlock decides to concentrate on it. 

_thump_

_thump_

_thump_

Slowly he feels his own eyelids closing.....

_thump_

_thump_

and then his own breath evens out in time with the steady rise and falls of John's chest. 

_thump_

_thump_

And then, finally, Sherlock is able to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little angst never hurt anybody, right?  
> Chapter inspired by the song "Brand New Day" by "Kodaline"
> 
> The full spotify playlist for this fic can be found here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6X5R79gOruQ4egEQQ5cAQw?si=KziynRsNRMqb30cKa2jNkQ
> 
> As always: my eternal gratitude to anyone who is reading along with this story.


	6. Alone with You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it rains sometimes it pours.

Rain is falling from the sky in big, heavy drops.  
It had started with a sudden darkening of the sky. Then a rumbling in the distance accompanied by the sporadic faint flash of lightning.  
And then the downpour.  
Rain coming down in a blinding curtain. Cold, sharp and unrelenting. 

Sherlock and John had been outside. Sunbathing at the edge of the lake.  
Their day so far had been slow and uneventful until the dramatic shift in weather had spurred them into action. 

They had gotten up as fast as they could, grabbing their towels in the process, and had taken shelter beneath the foliage of a nearby tree.  
Sherlock had protested that, during a thunderstorm, you should definitely not be near a large body of water or a large tree but the thunder and lightning had remained in the distance and had soon moved away entirely, leaving them with nothing but the rainstorm and a gloomy sky. 

So, in the end, they had decided to remain underneath the leaves of the tree instead of running home and risking getting soaked all the way through with the icy water pouring from the sky. 

It's been almost thirty minutes and the rain still beats down on the earth unrelenting. The canopy above can only do so much and every now and then a couple of drops make their way down and land on their sun-tanned skin.  
Sherlock has wrapped his towel tightly around his shoulders. He's trying his very best not to shiver but underneath the fabric of the towel he can feel his skin break out in goosebumps. Silently, he wishes he'd brought more clothes than just his swimming trunks. 

So far John has just been staring out into the rain. Seemingly lost in thought. But as another drop hits Sherlock's knee he does give him a questioning, sideways glance. 

“Are you getting cold?” he asks. 

Sherlock's first instinct is to shake his head. Definitely not. He's just as strong as John is when it comes to weathering the elements. But halfway through the head-shake, his damp curls sticking to his forehead slightly, he changes his mind.  
There are certain advantages to being cold.  
John is already sitting close to him, there is not a lot of room underneath the tree, but, if he were to admit to being cold, John might decide to sit even closer.....maybe even put his arm around him.....

Sherlock decides to turn his shake into a nod. 

“Yes”, he says, “I might be getting a little bit chilly.”

His plan might have worked, had he been able to keep himself from smiling while delivering it. 

John gives him a thoughtful, scrutinizing look for a couple of seconds and then his lips curl up into a smile as well. He stretches out his arm and before Sherlock can react he is being squished hard against his boyfriend's muscled and tanned chest. 

“You're unbelievable”, John says. 

Sherlock just giggles as a kiss is pressed against his soggy hair. 

*********************************

Another fifteen minutes pass and the rain still hasn't stopped.  
Sherlock finds he doesn't really care.  
As far as he is concerned it can rain all day and night and he'd still be perfectly happy.  
He still finds himself pressed against John's side, albeit not quite as roughly anymore, with John's arm draped loosely around his shoulder and John's cheek against his temple. 

They've talked a little bit, here and there, but on the whole they've been mostly quiet. Just enjoying each other's company.  
Sherlock feels warm, contented, happier than he's been in a long time. 

“I think I'm ready to tell my parents about us”, John suddenly says and Sherlock feels absolutely freezing once more. 

He sits up straight, moving away from John slightly. Just to get a little bit of perspective. 

“Why?”, he asks. 

“Why not?”, John gives a halfhearted, blasé shrug.

Sherlock thinks back to the conversation he's had with John's father while John was out shopping with his mother. Mr. Watson had been surprisingly understanding but he had warned Sherlock about John's mother's feelings on the matter.....she might not be quite so easygoing when she finds out her son is in a relationship with another boy.  
“People might not be as accepting as you think they will be”, he says. 

John shrugs again.  
“And you think I don't know that?”

“......you wouldn't mind........if people didn't......you know......”

“No”  
John sounds so sure. Sherlock admires that about him. John is always sure. He knows exactly what he wants and who he is. Being around all that positive energy makes Sherlock happy. He wishes he was more like John from time to time.  
A lot of the time he finds himself so full of doubt and insecurities. About who he is and what he wants and what others might think of him....but never when it comes to John. Once again, that might be John rubbing off on him. His light illuminating the world until it makes sense and making everything that Sherlock is better.

“But....why?” Sherlock asks. 

“I don't care what other people think”, John's reply, “That's their problem. I just don't want to hide this.....us.....from the world anymore. I don't know about you but...for me....it's becoming too big of a thing for that.”

Even though it's still raining to Sherlock it feels as if John's resolve is making the clouds break open and the sun shine through just a little bit. 

“You really wouldn't mind if your parents don't approve?”

“No. As long as you approve, I'm fine. They're not in this relationship......we are.”

“Then....I do”, Sherlock says. 

John looks momentarily confused.  
“Do what?”

“I approve.”

John smiles so brightly that for a moment Sherlock thinks the rain has actually stopped but then another fat drop hits him on the bridge of his nose and the spell is broken.  
He wants to wipe it off but finds he can't because, once again, John is pressed close against him.  
Chest to chest this time. John's hands caging him in where they are pressed into the wet ground at his side. 

“I approve of you too”, John says. His voice is soft and low and his lips are so very, very close, “very....very much.”

Sherlock leans himself forward just a fraction and kisses him then and while he does so John loses his balance and they both end up lying on their sides on the mud underneath.  
Sherlock finds he doesn't care because, even though they're lying down in cold, dirty mud, John does not stop kissing him.  
Someone is giggling and faintly Sherlock realizes it's him. It doesn't matter because all too soon John's hungry lips and tongue steal the sound from his mouth and it becomes something that belongs to the both of them. 

It rains for another seven minutes. They both get completely soaked.  
When Sherlock gets home Mycroft berates him for not seeking some kind of shelter and ushers him into the bathroom to get a warm shower.  
Sherlock just shrugs. He's never felt as warm as he does now. 

*********************************

Sherlock is in the passenger's seat of John's car. John is driving but his lips are pressed together in an unnatural line on his face, his jaw is tense and his hands grip the wheel just a little bit too tight.  
He's told his parents about his relationship with Sherlock the previous evening.  
Despite what he's told Sherlock about not caring what other's think about them....about him....it seems the conversation has not gone the way he thought it would. 

Years ago Sherlock had made a promise to himself to never ride in John's car but, seeing how affected John was today he had decided to break that promise. 

He has a good reason for not riding in John's car....or....at least...he used to.  
John's car is, to him, a symbol for the end of things.  
It had meant the end of their friendship, years ago.  
And it always seemed to be the final stop for every single one of John's girlfriends.  
He'd date them for a couple of weeks...at the most....ask them to join him for a ride in his car and, pretty soon after that, the relationship would be over.  
Sherlock doesn't want this to be over. Not ever. And so he has manged to stay as far away from John's car as he possibly can. Politely declining every time John offered him a ride.  
But today, with only two weeks left in his summer break and John's dark mood an almost palpable presence around them he had not wanted to say “no” to John.  
With so little time left before they will be inevitably parted anyway he figures they might as well go down in flames. 

John's car is old.  
It's an old Dodge pickup truck. It used to be red but the color has faded over the years and on certain spots the paint has actually peeled off. Showing the rusty metal underneath.  
One of the side mirrors has been fixed with duct-tape and the car makes a strange squeaking noise every time John makes a right hand turn. 

Sherlock finds he absolutely loves this car.  
It's unique.  
One of a kind.  
It has character.  
Just like John. 

John is still very tense. His mood dark. It's as if a storm-cloud has drifted in front of Sherlock's usually radiant and warm sun. He desperately wants it to move away. 

“I'm sorry your parents reacted like that”, Sherlock says. Pretty much just to say anything. 

“It's not your fault”, John says. His eyes fixed on the road in front of him. Sherlock is not sure if he actually wants John to look at him right now. His mood so dark. He's afraid his eyes will shoot actual lightning when he does and they will end up hurting Sherlock in the process.

“I'm still sorry”, he says. Quietly. More to himself than anything else. 

Another couple of moment pass in silence. There is no music because, just like the mirror, the radio in John's car is also broken and, unlike the mirror, a bit of duct-tape will not be able to fix it.  
So instead Sherlock tries to focus on the sound the wheels make as they come in contact with the uneven road below, the labored rumbling of the engine and the high pitched squeak every time John makes a right hand turn. 

The atmosphere in the truck is uncomfortable and Sherlock wishes he'd chosen another opportunity to take his maiden voyage in John's car. 

But then John lets out a long and shaky breath and he slightly loosens his death-grip on the wheel as his shoulders sag. 

“My dad was alright about it”, he says, “but my mother......can't she see that nothing's changed?  
That I'm still the same person I always was.....that you're still the same.......”

“I'm not the same person”, Sherlock interjects and John gives him a puzzled look.

“I've changed ever since I met you”, sherlock clarifies, “In all the right ways.....you've made me....more.”

He doesn't know how else to put it into words. Ever since he's met John he feels as if a light inside of him has been turned on. When he's with John something just clicks. The world makes sense. He feels as if he himself finally makes sense in it.  
This is why he dreads going back to Eton so much.  
He fears he will be left in the dark once more.  
He hopes John understands what he's trying to tell him.

There is a soft smile on John's face with just a hint of sadness.  
Sherlock is pretty sure John knows exactly what he's trying to say.  
That's another thing he likes about John.  
They just seem to _get_ each other. No words are needed. All they need is to be alone, together....a look....a touch....that's all they need to make the other understand and feel what they feel. 

“I'm sorry”, Sherlock says again. 

The smile on John's face turns even sadder.  
“Just give me a moment”, he says, “I just need a little bit of time.”

And so that's what Sherlock does. Because, at the moment, he feels that time is all he has to give. He stops talking and gives John a moment to himself. A moment to gather his thoughts and try and shake away the sadness and disappointment that weigh down on him so heavily. 

Another couple of minutes pass.  
Sherlock is not quite sure where John is driving them to. He's not even sure John knows.  
He finds he doesn't care.  
Instead, once more, he tries to concentrate on the variety of sounds the car makes until, finally, John decides to speak again. 

“I just wish we could drive away together”, John says, “just you and me.....drive off and never come back.”

Sherlock doesn't know what to say. They can't do that. He feels himself panicking a little bit. John has plans and responsibilities back home, a family, and he's pretty sure Mycroft is expecting him back before midnight. He didn't bring any extra clothes either....or money.....his wallet is still back home in his bedroom on his bedside table where he always leaves it.  
He wonders where exactly John _is_ driving them.....

Some of his thoughts might be written on his face for John to read again because suddenly John just laughs. 

“Don't worry”, he says, “I know we can't. I haven't gone completely crazy.”

And then he veers the car to the side of the road and just parks it there. Around them nothing but fields and farm-land and Sherlock just feels confused now but John is still smiling at him. 

“Let's just sit here”, John says, “just for a bit......just you and me.”

The smile is still on his face but the hint of sadness Sherlock saw earlier is also still there and so he finds that he still can't say no.

He finds himself nodding and as he does so John seems to relax just a little bit more.  
John puts his arm around Sherlock's shoulder. Just as he had done when they were sitting underneath the tree yesterday, hiding from the rain.  
But, had the gesture been playful and full of energy then, now it's soft and the fingers grazing his shoulder almost melancholy.  
Sherlock leans his head on John's shoulder just as he had done before and they both just stare out of the window. 

“I'm sorry”, Sherlock says again. More to himself than anyone else. 

And, once more, he feels the soft and familiar press of John's lips on his curls. 

*******************************

They sit like that for a long time.  
Just enjoying each others company.  
Sherlock tries to memorize everything about John while he still can. Now that he'll be leaving in just a couple of weeks.  
Two weeks to be exact.  
Fourteen days.  
Three hundred and thirty-six hours.  
Twenty thousand one-hundred and sixty minutes....  
He stops himself from doing any more calculations. They distract him from the here and now.  
The soft rise and fall of John's shoulder underneath his cheek as he breathes in and out.  
How the flow of his breath on occasion ruffles the curls draped over his forehead.  
How John's fingers softly and absentmindedly stroke the skin of his shoulder.  
Up and down......up and down.......up......

By now it has gotten so late that the sun is starting to set.  
Sherlock can't help but smile. John's fingers momentarily stop their monotonous path along his shoulder. 

“It's not a sunrise”, John says, “but at least we get to see it together.”

“It's beautiful.”

“Yes...yes it is”, John replies. But when Sherlock glances up at him from the corners of his eyes John is not looking out the window at all. Instead he's looking down at Sherlock. Where he's pressed against his side. 

Sherlock feels himself heating up all over and his skin suddenly tingles uncomfortably as if his soul has gotten too big for his body and is trying to find a way out. He decides to sit up straight. Reluctantly John slides his hand down from Sherlock's shoulder but his fingers find a new resting place at the curve of his hip. 

From his new vantage point Sherlock suddenly spots something else in the sky streaked with oranges and reds and pinks and purples. 

“Look!”, he says, pointing, “it's the moon!”

John leans himself forward, his gaze following the direction Sherlock is pointing in.  
“Hey....yeah....it is!”

“Did you know”, Sherlock says, “that the light of the moon is just sunlight reflecting off of it.”

John barks out a full belly laugh. The sound bright and full of joy and once again Sherlock feels too full for his own skin. He feels as if he's spilling over with.......something. 

“I love the moon”, John says but he's still not looking out the window. He's looking at Sherlock. 

“I....”, Sherlock says, but he finds he's not quite sure how to continue. There is so much he wants to say to John. So, so, _so_ much. But, once again, he finds John is just like the sun. Being this close to him and his radiance seems to blind him. Makes him forget what he wants to say and seems to burn him up from the inside out. 

John just keeps smiling at him and shakes his head. Again John seems to understand the words he is unable to say. 

“You don't have to say anything”, John says. 

And then he leans in and he softly presses his lips to Sherlock's.  
They've kissed so many times by now that Sherlock has lost count but somehow it's different this time.  
This time the kiss is more......more of everything......so much more......it is hiding the words they both want to say but have been too afraid to do so yet. 

Outside of the car the sun sets and the moon rises. The light of the moon sunlight reflecting off of its surface.  
And as long as the sun will rise, the moon will shine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter inspired by "Alone with You" by "Canyon City". 
> 
> Full Spotify-playlist to this story can be found here: https://open.spotify.com/user/vanimelda4/playlist/6X5R79gOruQ4egEQQ5cAQw?si=KziynRsNRMqb30cKa2jNkQ
> 
> Man...I had so much trouble writing this chapter and I don't really know why.....I might decide I hate it in the future and revise it a bit but if I do I will let you know.  
> Comments and feedback are always appreciated.  
> And as always: I love every single person who is reading this story to the moon and back.


	7. Going like the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good things come to an end.

JW + SH.

Sherlock looks at the choppy letters that John has meticulously carved into the trunk of the tree with an old swiss army knife.  
He's not quite sure how he feels about them yet. About what they mean to him. What they might mean to John. 

The tree is the same one they sat under only a couple of days ago. Seeking shelter from the rain. Huddled close together. Damp naked skin pressed against damp naked skin.  
Close.  
Vulnerable.  
And yet....sheltered.  
And protected. 

Intimate.

Alone.....together. 

It's not raining today.  
It's another sweltering hot day and John wipes the sweat of his brow as he deepens the carved lines of the “H”. 

It's still summer but September is just around the corner and with it it will bring the end of many things. The days will grow shorter and cooler, the leaves on the trees will first change color only to wither, fall and die altogether, flowers will fade, birds will travel south.....September spells change. The end of many things. It also means the end of Sherlock's summer vacation. 

He will be leaving tonight. 

John doesn't know this.  
He doesn't know Sherlock has changed his plane ticket for tomorrow evening for an earlier flight.  
Sherlock doesn't want John to know.  
If John knows he'll turn it into a “thing”. An official “goodbye”. 

Sherlock doesn't do well with goodbye's. 

They seem so final. 

As long as he doesn't say goodbye to John.....not officially.....then....there is no end to this. This thing that has grown between them and has changed him irrevocably.  
If you close your eyes before the sun sets only to open them again once it has completed its journey around the earth and has reclaimed its place in the sky above you......it will be as if it has never left. 

Sherlock closes his eyes now. The sunlight filtering through the branches of the tree feels warm on his face. It's still early afternoon. It'll be a while yet before he has to leave.  
Before the sun will go down. On him. On John. On his happiness. On all of this. 

“So....what do you think?”  
Sherlock opens his eyes again. John is looking at him expectantly. A large grin on his face, a twinkle in his eye. A slight sheen of sweat covers his bare skin and the knuckles of the hand that still grips the knife are slightly red from rubbing up against the course bark of the tree as he carved away. 

“I......” Sherlock says. He's thinking a lot of things right now. None of which he would like to share with John. 

John chuckles softly as he admires his own handiwork.  
“I think it turned out alright”, John says. 

“I don't get it”, Sherlock says. Because there are a lot of things he doesn't understand. Things he doesn't know. For instance, how he'll be able to sleep knowing that when he wakes up in the morning he will not be able to go and see John. That the next time he might have a chance of running his fingers through course, short, blond strands of hair is months away and uncertain. He doesn't understand how John can still be smiling at him while the feeling of dread that has formed in his own lower abdomen has transformed from a soft, barely noticeable flutter into a lead weight that makes it hard to breathe. 

“It's our initials”, John says. Still smiling. 

There is still so much that Sherlock doesn't understand so he decides to focus on the simplest of all of his questions. The one that's right in front of his nose. 

He decides to roll his eyes.  
“I know that”, he says, “but why would you carve them into a tree?”

John rubs the back of his neck. His shirt rides up slightly as he does so revealing a strip of tanned skin and a scattering of short golden hairs.  
Sherlock swallows around a sudden lump in his throat. 

“I just thought.....”, John says and then stops talking. He seems slightly embarrassed. Sherlock doesn't really know why he would be. Yet another conundrum to add to his already vast collection. And so he just waits for John to continue talking. And eventually he does: 

“I just thought”, John says again, “that it would be nice to have something of.....us.......here.....forever......”

Sherlock still doesn't reply so after a moment of awkward silence John continues speaking once more: 

“With you leaving for England....and me going to army training in two months......in case neither of us ever comes back here.....I just want part of us to stay here forever......Proof that we were here......proof of what we found.......”

John stops talking again and looks at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock finds there is still a lump in his throat and his mouth has gone completely dry. 

“What we found?” he asks. He still does not understand. 

Once again a smile lights up John's face as he steps closer to Sherlock. He lets the knife fall from his fingers to the dry grass underneath before entwining them with sherlock's.

First he brings Sherlock's left hand to his lips and kisses the knuckles reverently. Then he brings Sherlock's right hand to his lips as well and repeats the motion.  
John's lips grace his skin in a barely perceptible motion but somehow Sherlock can feel this featherlight point of contact resonate in the depths of his chest. 

“Everything”, John says. 

Sherlock wants to say: _I don't want to go_

And: _Please don't let go of me_

_Please don't let this be the end._

_Please don't let this be the last I get of you_

_Please_

But saying that would sound too much like “goodbye”. And Sherlock doesn't do “goodbye”. 

And so he just closes his eyes again, leans himself forward and kisses John's lips.  
John tastes like warm summer nights where the possibilities seem endless, like swimming in cooling lake-water underneath a scorching sun, like languid limbs stretching, like fireflies finding their way in the night-sky, like pebbles carefully thrown against a window like an open fire, like the sun, like something all consuming, like...... 

***********************************

Sherlock puts his bags in the trunk of Mycroft's car.  
Around them the sun is setting, igniting the vast Indiana sky above them in vibrant reds, pinks and oranges.

Mycroft is giving him a questioning look. Sherlock tries avoiding it as best as he can but not looking at Mycroft means looking at the sky around them....at the setting sun....and somehow that seems a little bit too much to bear at the moment. 

“Isn't John coming to say goodbye?” Mycroft asks. 

Sherlock cringes at the word.....”goodbye”.......please no.....

He just shakes his head. 

“Seems odd.......”, Mycroft says. 

Sherlock's chest feels as if it is about three sizes too small for his laboring lungs.  
“Leave it”, he says. His voice a hoarse wheeze as his throat constricts and he struggles for breath. 

Mycroft just stops and stares at him for a moment.  
Sherlock is afraid he'll do something painful like ask him about John again but thankfully, after a couple more moments of silence, Mycroft just gives him a small nod, closes the trunk of the car and gets behind the wheel.  
Sherlock had thought that the loss of his brother's scrutinizing look would make breathing easier but it only seems to make the darkening sky above him more vast and oppressive. 

He tries not to look at John's house before quickly getting into the car. 

*****************************

The drive to the airport will only take about an hour. Sherlock will first take a flight from a small airport nearby to Chicago. From Chicago he'll travel on to London.  
The first 15 minutes of their drive are spent in complete silence.  
Mycroft's car is sleek and new. It doesn't make all the noises John's car makes. It doesn't squeak when Mycroft turns right, the engine doesn't sputter and roar when Mycroft's foot hits the gas-pedal, unlike the one in John's car this radio does work but neither of them feels like turning it on. 

Sherlock doesn't want to look at his brother but he also doesn't want to look out of the window and see the miles between him and John and his newfound happiness increase more and more and so he just looks at his hands folded in his lap.  
But his empty fingers only remind him of how, just hours earlier, John had taken his hands in his and had pressed his lips to each of them as if Sherlock was something precious. 

Eventually a polite cough from his brother breaks his reverie.  
Realizing his other options are equally disagreeable this time he does look at Mycroft. 

His older brother is looking at him with a worried expression on his face.  
“Are you alright?” he asks. 

Sherlock hates him for asking. Questions like this are just like “goodbye”, as long as you don't speak them out loud and keep them for yourself; their answers remain intangible and unreal. 

Sherlock doesn't reply. 

There are tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. If he replies he's afraid that the truth of his words will set them free as well. 

He's hoping Mycroft will just drop the subject if the doesn't say anything. 

“Sherlock?” Mycroft says. This time he's facing forward again. He can only take his eyes off the road while driving for so long. 

Sherlock still doesn't reply. 

“You know you can always talk to me, right?”

Sherlock purses his lips together tightly. 

“I know how hard this must be for you, Sherlock......having to say goodbye to John.....to what you two found together this summer.........I.....”

Sherlock inhales sharply before Mycroft is able to say whatever else he had been planning to say.

“Alright”, Mycroft says and then just stops talking again. 

Sherlock decides that looking out the window is the better option after all.

And as the sun, bathed in a sea of colors, dips lower and lower towards the horizon he finds that a single tear has been able to escape the corner of his eye. He quickly wipes it from his cheek before his brother is able to see it. 

*********************************

The airport is small.  
Only a couple of flights leave here on a daily basis. It's nothing compared to the suffocating crowds that populate O'Hare airport in Chicago at all times.  
It feels like some sort of calm before the storm.  
The storm that will sweep Sherlock up and drown him in just a couple of hours.  
He's already checked his bags and gotten his ticket but he hasn't gone through security yet. They're here early. He's got a little bit over an hour and a half to kill before he has to be at his gate. 

Maybe he should go through security.....at least it will get him away from Mycroft and the sad pitying looks he's been throwing him ever since they got out of the car. 

So Mycroft knows about him and John. 

Of course he does. 

Mycroft is just as smart as him....maybe even a little bit smarter.....although he'll never admit it..........of course he'd been able to figure out what was going on.....Sherlock wonders why, during all the weeks of summer vacation they had spent sharing a house, Mycroft had never asked him about it.

He looks at his brother, where he stands, a couple of feet back, talking on his phone.  
Mycroft is just standing far way enough for Sherlock to not be able to overhear the conversation and find out who he is talking to. He contemplates moving a bit closer but that would make it too obvious. 

Mycroft has been on his phone almost constantly ever since they parked the car. First texting and then actual phone calls.  
Must be something work related. They never seem to be able to leave Mycroft alone. 

Finally Mycroft hangs up. He takes a deep breath as he still stares down at his phone for a couple of seconds more after the call has ended, seemingly lost in thought.  
But then he seems to make up his mind as he puts his phone away and comes walking back towards Sherlock again. A determined but inscrutable look on his face. 

“We're going to get coffee”, he says as he reaches his younger brother. 

Sherlock wants to object but his brother is already walking towards the only coffee place this side of security. 

Coffee it is then. 

*************************************

Sherlock sips his coffee slowly. He's only drunk about a third of it. In the back of his mind he can almost feel time slip away from him. The time where he is still on the same continent as John at least. The time where, in theory, if he would choose to do so, he could get up, turn around and walk back to John.  
Once he gets on the plane all choice will be taken from him. They will be parted by many miles, oceans and timezones then. 

He wonders what John is doing now. If he has realized that Sherlock has already left. That all the plans he had been making for tomorrow, things for them to do together, are now completely pointless. He wonders if John is mad at him. 

His throat is once again dry and the inside of his mouth tastes like bile.  
He looks down at his cup of coffee and he feels his stomach turn. 

Thankfully Mycroft hasn't tried to talk to him again. He's just been sitting across from Sherlock giving him strange looks and on occasion looking at the terminal around them as if he's searching for something.  
Sherlock is thankful for the quiet at least. 

***********************************8

They can't postpone the inevitable any longer. Sherlock needs to get through security soon or risk missing his flight.  
He gets up with shaking legs.  
His palms are clammy and his limbs and stomach feel as if they're filled with lead.  
His cup is still almost entirely full. The coffee inside of it has gone cold. He tosses it in the garbage. 

“Sherlock”

The voice is coming from behind him. For a moment he thinks it's Mycroft trying to give him some kind of comforting speech he doesn't need one final time......but he knows this voice.....this is not Mycroft's voice.......then he thinks he must be hallucinating......he might as well be with the way he feels right now.  
His mind is foggy, his skin both too hot and too cold at the same time and he finds he still cannot breathe properly. 

Sherlock turns himself around on unsteady legs.  
The final rays of light from the setting sun filter into the windows of the airport bathing it and its inhabitants in an almost golden light. 

“John”. 

The light of the late evening frames John like a halo. He's still wearing the same clothes he had been wearing that afternoon and his knuckles still bear the faint scratches left there when they had been rubbed against the bark of their tree continuously. 

_JW + SH_ , Sherlock thinks. 

_John_ , he wants to say again but he finds he has now, momentarily, completely lost the ability to speak. 

“You're leaving tonight”, John says. Not a question. Just stating the obvious. John's voice is not shaky or insecure. It rings out like a bell in the quiet of the hall around them. 

Sherlock just nods. 

“You weren't going to tell me.” another statement. 

Sherlock wants to look away but finds he can't. Not now that he has one more chance to look at John. He finds he still cannot speak and so he just nods again. 

For a moment neither of them speaks. Sherlock is afraid of what John is going to do. He is afraid John will get mad. He doesn't want his last memory of John to be one where John isn't happy. He doesn't want the last words John speaks to him to be words of anger.  
He hopes John can see that at least. That he never meant to hurt him. That he had only meant to hurt himself.....or keep himself from hurting....sparing the both of them the hurt of a goodbye....but somehow.....not having had one now hurts more. 

“John....” finally he seems to have regained his voice but it's still small and fragile and the only word that comes to him is John's name. 

“John....” he says again....and again....and again......

“John......John.....John......”

His face is wet and his vision has gone blurry. He can no longer see the shape of John just the blinding light of the setting sun taking his hopes and dreams with it as it sinks beneath the horizon. 

He wants to say John's name again but this time all that comes out is a sob. His chest hurts. His heart hurts. His lungs feel as if there are shards of glass stuck in them. He fights for breath as his legs feel as if they're slowly turning to liquid. 

He tries to speak again but this time no sound comes out.  
There are now so many tears in his eyes that he is unable to see anything anymore. He's afraid that John might have left again but then there are soft hands on his face wiping at the liquid running down and a soft voice close to his ear. 

“Sssssssh.........sssssssh......it's alright.....I understand......it's okay”, John says. 

Sherlock falls into his arms like a brick but John is ready for the force of him. John wraps his arms around him tightly and presses him close to his chest. Underneath his cheek Sherlock can both feel and hear the steady pulse of John's heartbeat and it calms him down just a bit. 

“Ssssssssh”, John says again. As if he's trying to calm down a wild animal.  
Softly John presses a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head and then there are warm words whispered in between his curls.  
“I understand”, John says, “it's okay, I'm not mad. I'm going to miss you too.......terribly.......but we'll be alright..........sssssssh.......we'll be alright.”

_we'll be alright_

Pressed tightly against John's firm chest. The sound of his heartbeat strong in his ear, the rise and fall of his chest a reassuring rhythm underneath Sherlock's hands, the smell of him making its way into his nose and lungs finally allowing him to breathe again.......he chooses to believe him. 

**********************

“Did Mycroft call you?”

Now that Sherlock seems to have calmed down there is a wide grin on John's face once again.  
“Yup”, he says. 

Mycroft is standing a little way away at a respectable distance. Giving them some privacy. Sherlock gives him a scowl. Mycroft pretends he doesn't see it but the left corner of his mouth turns upwards slightly. 

“Will you call me as soon as you land?” John says. 

“Of course.”

“I'm going to miss you.....terribly.”

“.....me too.”

John leans himself forward and places a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips.  
“One for the road”, he says. 

“I'm not going by road, I'm flying.”

John chuckles and presses another kiss to his lips.  
“One for the air then.”

“I'm taking a train after that.”

John gives him another kiss. 

“And a bus.”

And another. 

“I might take up canoeing while I'm there.”

John's lips brush against his own obligingly and as Sherlock parts his he can almost taste the chuckle that escapes from John's mouth. 

It tastes like home-made lemonade and roasting marshmallows, like paint drying on naked skin left there by warm fingers, like fingertips making their way from his shoulder to his hip igniting the flesh underneath them, like an endless sky of stars, like an endless blue sky without clouds, like big drops of rain that fall from between a canopy of green leaves, like letters carved into a tree, like the sun and the moon coming together, like waiting and then releasing all at once, like......like......everything. 

Sherlock closes his eyes as they kiss and, as long as he keeps them closed, he will not be able to see the sun going down around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is inspired by the song "Like the Sun" by Lily Kershaw.
> 
> I know this story has been on the backburner for a bit but that sometimes happens to just about everything I write. 
> 
> It is not done yet though!
> 
> Many thanks to those of you who are still reading along. You are all amazing :-)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am not American and have only been to rural Indiana a handful of times. I am well aware that my version of it in this fic is a highly romanticised version but....hey....that's why it's called fiction, right!
> 
> Once again this story was inspired by a song.  
> This time it's: "The Sun and the Moon" by Annalise Emerick.  
> Give it a listen if you want to. It's very folky, Americana. 
> 
> As always: my eternal gratitude to anyone who reads my silly musings. I love each and every one of you.  
> And, if you feel like it, please leave a comment. Comments feed my muse.


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